


The Makalaurë Chronicles: Age of Treelight

by Ilya_Boltagon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abusive Fëanor, Alqualondë, Aman (Tolkien), Angst, Bullying, Child Abuse, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Sibling Rivalry, Tirion, Valinor, Years of the Trees, some foreshadowing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22403557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilya_Boltagon/pseuds/Ilya_Boltagon
Summary: A character study of Makalaurë during his early life, in the Years of the Trees before the Darkening. A story of what it was like growing up in the House of Fëanor, and the relationships he had with his parents, brothers and other kin, and how that affected events that took place later.For my friend, The_Long_Defeat. Enjoy!
Relationships: Angrod | Angaráto/Edhellos | Eldalótë, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Galadriel | Artanis, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Galadriel | Artanis and Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor | Makalaurë & Nerdanel, Maglor | Makalaurë & Original Female Character(s), Maglor | Makalaurë & Sons of Fëanor, Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife
Comments: 48
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

Makalaurë was currently sitting hunched up in a window seat, scribbling down notes on the latest piece of music he had composed. He glanced up at the sounds of horses thundering into the courtyard. The light of Laurelin, even when waning as Telperion began to bloom, seared his eyes and he winced, but nonetheless he was able to make out the figures of his Atar and three of his younger brothers dismounting, newly returned from their hunt, while Tyelkormo's pack of hounds raced around, tails wagging, getting under everyone's feet. Atar was silent as he tended to his stallion, while Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke all talked excitedly, vying for Atar's attention, their voices competing with each other for volume. A large buck was slung over Tyelkormo's horse, and bulging sacks of game had been tied to the saddles of the other mounts. The hunt had been successful, then. Which meant that the 'boys', as Makalaurë thought of them, would be bragging all evening. Perfect.

Stable-hands dashed over to take the horses and tend to them. Atar distributed the smaller sacks of game to Tyelko and the others, taking the largest himself, while also slinging the buck over one shoulder. The boys raced off to the kitchens to deposit their spoils with the cooks, while Atar's intense eyes shot to the window that Makalaurë was peering out of, and narrowed slightly. Perfect. Atar was still angry about his refusal to take part in this hunt, made worse by Maitimo's disappearance earlier this morning, to spend the day with Findekáno. Again. Makalaurë looked away at once, clambering down from the window seat and leaving the parlor to go and find Amil and let her know the others had returned in time for supper, as she had thought they might not.

He found Amil in her workshop, intent upon her latest carving, stone dust liberally coating her skin, hair and gown, making it appear as if she had aged many years in the course of the day. He had little time to consider what she was so intent on making, however, as two small red-haired figures flung themselves upon him, shrieking with laughter, each tightly clinging to one of his thighs.

“Cano!” Ambarussa and Ambarto shrieked in unison, as if they had not seen him for a yen, not a mere two hours. He chuckled, ignoring their abbreviated use of his disliked father-name, as the twins were only seven, too young to know better, and stooped to their level.

“Ah, there you two are. I wondered where you scampered off to after your tutor left earlier. Have you been helping Amme?”

Both twins nodded eagerly. Ambarussa pointed at a heap of old parchments on the floor, both covered in unrecognizable black scribbles, two sticks of charcoal lying abandoned next to the 'drawings'- charcoal that both the elflings were also painted in. “She said we could do some sketches for what she will make next! See?”

Makalaurë nodded sagely, before abruptly wrapping one arm around each twin and standing, hefting them so they were supported against his torso. Amid their giggles, he stepped closer to Amil and cleared his throat, knowing that she could become very intent upon her work, but needing to inform her that Atar had returned, and their relatively quiet home was about to be restored to its typical chaos. “Amil?”

Nerdanel jumped, as if she truly had been engrossed in her carving, and had not heard him at all. “Oh! Makalaurë. You startled me.” Her brow furrowed as she regarded him. “Is all well?”

“Yes, of course. I just wished to tell you that Atar and the others have returned.”

“Already?” Amil frowned. “But it's only...”

Makalaurë's lips twitched. “It's Second Mingling, Amil.” Like him and his music playing or composing, Amil's carving could swallow all her attention until the passage of time meant nothing.

Amil clamped a hand to her brow. “By the Valar, I completely lost track of time! Maitimo has not returned, has he?” At Makalaurë's head-shake, she sighed, perhaps knowing that the absence of her eldest son would only agitate Atar, especially as it was known to him that Maitimo was spending his time with Ñolofinwë's eldest son Findekáno. And given Atar's strong dislike of his half-brothers, it would only cause trouble. Not for the first time, Makalaurë wished that Maitimo could have found a different best friend, someone whose mere name being uttered would not constantly enrage Atar. He thought Amil felt the same, but there was no telling Maitimo anything once he made his mind up.

Amil hastily brushed at her gown, but it had little effect on the dust coating upon it. Heaving a sigh, she then looked at the charcoal-streaked hands and faces of her two youngest. “I must see to it that supper is prepared.... can you take the little ones and clean them up?”

“Of course, Amil.” He gave her a grateful smile. In truth, he loved spending time with his baby brothers- Maitimo was away so often now, and the other three boys paid him little heed unless it was to mock or heckle him somehow. Ambarussa and Ambarto, however, adored the time and attention he spent on them. “Come along, charcoal-monsters. Bath time!”

The twins mock-squirmed in feigned attempts to escape, both protesting about having to bathe, but they were so small still that Makalaurë could easily contain them. He made his way upstairs swiftly, hoping to be busy bathing the twins before-

“Oh look, brothers, it's our youngest siblings and their nursemaid!”

Makalaurë cursed inside his head as Tyelkormo's loud mocking voice echoed down the hall. He, Carnistir and Atarinkëapproached, all grinning at the jest. He bit his tongue to keep from snapping at him- it was only one snide comment, not worth turning into a fight, especially not in front of the twins, who just looked confused at Tyelkormo's words.

Atarinkë's lip curled in a sneer. “Nay, brother, you are mistaken. It is Makalaurë who holds the twins.”

Tyelkormo feigned squinting, a malicious grin still on his face. “Are you certain?”

Atarinkë nodded. “I am. No doubt the babies are for a bath before supper, and surely our _sister_ is seeing to it.” He stared directly at Makalaurë as he spoke, leaving no doubt as to whom he was referring. "After all, one who has no stomach for a hunt is surely best suited to coddling babies. Makalaurë at least excels at singing lullabies!"

Tyelkormo and Carnistir burst out laughing, until tears of mirth streamed down their faces.

“Cano's our brother, not our sister!” Ambarto piped up, looking confused and angry.

That, sadly, only led to more mocking laughter, not helped by Carnistir adding his own 'jest'. “Look, brothers, Makalaurë needs infants to stand up for him!”

“Well, Maitimo isn't here for him to hide behind, so what did you expect?” Still laughing and jostling each other, the three headed off to their own rooms to clean up before supper, no doubt.

Makalaurë remained where he was for a moment, breathing deeply to calm himself, the sting of his younger brothers' mockery warring with the urge to lash out at them. Focusing on Ambarussa and Ambarto's weight in his arms helped- he could not do anything rash in front of them, for what kind of example would that set for his baby brothers?

Little fingers smoothed his hair, as if the twins meant to comfort him, and that small gesture brought the hint of a smile to his face. “Are you two alright?”

“Yes.” Ambarussa was frowning. “What was Tyelko, Carnistir and Atarinkë talkin' about?”

“What _were_ they _talking_ about,” Makalaurë corrected Ambarussa's babyish speech automatically, “And it's nothing for you to worry about, little brother. They were just acting foolishly.” Some of the anger he felt had unwittingly seeped into his voice, for his words came out harsher than he had intended. But it made him feel better. A bit. Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinkë would never have spoken to Maitimo in that way. What made them think it was acceptable to do so with him? He was their older brother as much as Maitimo was...

“Why are you insulting your younger brothers in front of the infants, Canafinwë?”

Makalaurë tensed, and turned around slowly, braced as if preparing for a blow as he faced his father. How had he not heard Atar approach? True, he often moved in near-silence, but Makalaurë was normally alert enough to not be taken by surprise.

Fëanáro stood still, arms folded and one eyebrow arched, his face impassive, but dark eyes blazing, as ever, with their inner fire. It was clear he was waiting for a reply. The sweat, mud and blood from the hunt still coated him, but nonetheless he cut a tall, intimidating figure, and Makalaurë was torn between hunching his shoulders and using the little twins as a shield, or setting the little ones down and moving between them and Atar, to protect them, though from what, he could not say. There were no words for the moods that often came over Atar, making him fey and unpredictable.

“Well? I'm waiting!” Atar snapped, his tone making Ambarussa and Ambarto wince, huddling closer to Makalaurë who fought to keep his voice even as he replied.

“Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinkë were.... jesting, as they passed us in the hallway,” _And clearly, you heard none of it, or else you would not be criticizing me_. “The twins were puzzled by their words, so I was trying to explain.”

“With words sour enough to curdle milk, aimed towards your own brothers.” Atar's tone was neutral, but Makalaurë knew that meant little: Atar could become angry in an instant, with no warning.

“I...”

“Give the twins to me: I will see to it they are made fit to be seen at supper.” 'Since you clearly could not keep them from getting in this state.' The words went unspoken, but were clearly written on Atar's face. Makalaurë bit his tongue, and bowed his head, handing the twins off to his father, accepting the chastisement. It was better than having Atar and Amil quarreling again. “And since you have opted to idle the day away indoors instead of joining your brothers and I on our hunt as you ought to have done, you can make yourself useful now. Go to the kitchens and help the servants dress and prepare the meat.”

 _But I hate the sight and smell of blood, that's why I didn't wish to go hunting in the first place!_ The protest died on Makalaurë's lips. Seeing the steely look in Atar's eyes, he knew this was the unspoken punishment for speaking ill of Atar's _favored_ sons, though Atar would never admit that. Sighing heavily, he turned and left without a word, heading for the kitchens. He could simply slip away, but Atar might well check to be sure that he had obeyed, so it was best to get it over with. And if he was not done in time to join the rest of the family for supper? It mattered little, since dressing the meat would almost certainly make him ill regardless, and he would not want food after that! Atar would no doubt tell Amil that he had offered to help the servants, and, as usual, to prevent his parents arguing, Makalaurë would say nothing.

Still, as he worked in the stifling hot kitchen, his brown hair tied back, but still sticking to his neck, his skin soaked in sweat, the servants whispering behind his back, he daydreamed, over and over, of having a friend who would listen to him, someone as close to him as Findekáno was to Maitimo, who would allow him escape from his home, and the increasing knowledge that he was somehow unwelcome, that he did not fit in, that hung in the atmosphere. If only he could just make himself scarce every so often, have a chance to _breathe_ , away from the looming pressure of his father's moods, and the taunting from his brothers...

 _Tomorrow_ , he told himself as he continued skinning the buck that had apparently been Tyelkormo's prey, willing his stomach to calm its roiling as blood spurted over his hands, _Tomorrow I will ride out before First Mingling, and just spend the day elsewhere, for some peace and quiet._ He did not know yet _where_ he would go, perhaps just into Tirion to visit Anatar Finwë and Lady Indis, or Uncle Arafinwë. (Going there would anger Atar still further, if he were to find out, but Makalaurë had long since accepted that nothing he could do would truly please his Atar.) He would leave a note for Amil, of course, so she would not worry over his absence. His heart clenched as he realized that, aside from Maitimo, if he cared to come home at all, and the little twins, she might be the only one who did.

* * *

**Translations**

**Makalaurë/Canafinwë: Maglor.**

**Fëanáro: Feanor.**

**Tyelkormo: Celegorm**

**Carnistir: Caranthir**

**Atarinkë: Curufin**

**Ambarussa: Amrod**

**Ambarto: Amras**

**Ñolofinwë: Fingolfin**

**Arafinwë: Finarfin**

**Findekáno: Fingon**

**Atar/Atto: Father/Papa**

**Amil/Amme: Mother/Mama**


	2. Chapter 2

Makalaurë walked as softly as he could, gathering things and sliding them into a pack, while carrying his boots in one hand: walking barefoot allowed him to move more quietly. The bright silver light of Telperion was beginning to fade, but Laurelin had not yet begun to blossom, and he was (he hoped) the only one awake in the house. Adding ink, quills and some pieces of parchment to his pack, in case he became inspired to write new music, as sometimes happened at the most inopportune times, he tied it shut and slung it onto his back, before picking up his beloved harp, and creeping down the kitchen stairs, the ones used by the servants: they were the furthest from Atar and Amil's rooms, and gave him his best chance at slipping out secretly. He'd left a note for Amil, explaining that he would be spending the day in Tirion (without specifying where, exactly, he could be found) in Maitimo's room. None of their younger siblings ever went in there, and when Maitimo returned, Makalaurë knew he would respect his privacy and simply give Amil the note without prying.

Pausing at the back door, he set his boots down and quickly slipped them on, before easing the door open and stepping outside, all his focus on the house behind him, silently praying to whatever Vala that might be listening that he could slip away unnoticed. He only wanted to spend a day without feeling as if he had to watch every single thing he said or did...

“Oof!”

Makalaurë was almost knocked over, breath forced from his lungs, due to the force of colliding with someone attempting to walk _in_ the door he was trying to leave through. Staggering, he managed to regain his footing, taking great pains to ensure his harp had not been damaged, before darting his eyes over the intruder, already half certain who it was.

“Maitimo!” He spoke in a whisper. “Do you know the trouble you will be in if Atar finds you coming in at this hour? Where have you and Findekáno _been_?”

Maitimo shrugged, half-heartedly shoving strands of stark red hair back from his face. “Kano and I were just talking, and we lost track of time.”

Makalaurë picked up a certain strong smell on his older brother's breath, and wrinkled his nose. “You lost track of the _wine_ , too, judging by the smell of you. And will you keep your voice down! I don't want Atar woken.”

Maitimo scowled. “So what if we were drinking, we're not _babies_ -” His silver eyes seemed to register Makalaurë's appearance then- hair tied back, pack on his shoulders, harp in hand. “And where are _you_ going at this time?” His eyes twinkled. “Off to a tryst with a fair maiden, perhaps?”

“Very funny.” Makalaurë muttered. “No, today I am doing what you have taken to doing lately, and having a day to myself, outside this house. _You_ can pick up the slack with Atar and our brothers for once.” Ignoring the stab of guilt he felt at leaving Maitimo to deal with things alone, he pushed past him and slipped outside, closing the door behind him and striding off quickly.

 _Why should I feel guilty, anyway? Maitimo never seems to think of what I go through when he simply disappears for hours!_ He paused at the stables, debating on taking a horse, but waking a mount and tacking it up would take time and delay his departure, not to mention that anyone who went into the stables would almost certainly awaken Tyelkormo's hounds, setting them barking and increasing the odds of Atar finding and stopping him. Besides, they did not live that far from the centre of Tirion. Turning from the stables, he set off on foot.

Raised voices echoed from inside- Atar and Maitimo. It seemed Atar had woken after all, and caught Maitimo's late (or extremely early) return. Makalaurë hesitated, heart lurching. Should he go back and help Maitimo? He'd likely only make Atar angrier- his mere presence seemed to do that, most days, but at least then Maitimo wouldn't take the brunt of Atar's rage...

Amil's clear, calming voice became audible, and the shouting ceased. Makalaurë's shoulders slumped with relief, and before he could second-guess himself once more, he resumed walking, moving quickly through the gardens and out of the gate, not slowing until he was several streets away from home. Only then did he pause to get his bearings and consider what to do next. Laurelin was only beginning to bloom now, and most people would just be starting to wake. He could not go calling on Uncle Arafinwë at this hour, although the street that Arafinwë dwelled upon was not far, and the same applied to going up to the palace to see Anatar Finwë. Leaving early had seemed the best way to avoid another scene with Atar, but now, he did not know what to do. He had at least two hours to fill, and nothing to do. Sighing, he began an aimless walk down the street, thinking that perhaps he could just wander Tirion until a more reasonable hour. Lost in his thoughts, he let his feet carry him where they would as the light of Laurelin brightened.

A strange scuffling sound, and a muttered oath, in a female voice, had him glancing up, puzzled. A few yards ahead of where he stood, a young elleth hung half in, half out of a window of the second storey of Uncle Arafinwë's townhouse, her cloak caught on something within. Makalaurë, belatedly recognizing his young cousin Artanis, whom he hardly ever saw save at festivals to the Valar, or at the few Court appearances Atar let him attend, the last having been some years ago, walked over, while wondering what, exactly, she might be up to. She was of an age with Tyelkormo, if he recalled correctly, and if she could get into as much trouble as Tyelko did...

Without truly thinking of what he was doing, he addressed her as he would the twins when they were up to mischief, moving to stand beneath the window in which she was stuck (the better to catch her should she fall), he raised a brow. “And just what are you doing, cousin?” Perhaps he was being too familiar with someone he hardly knew, but they were family, after all, and Uncle Arafinwë, Artanis' father, had always been kind to him. It was fitting that Makalaurë should show the same courtesy to his daughter.

Evidently, he had startled her, for she let out a shriek at the sound of his voice, although she quickly re-arranged her expression into one of haughty composure. “Who- oh.” Her piercing blue eyes alighted on him. “Cousin Makalaurë.” Her brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

He was, frankly, surprised she even knew who he was- usually, it was his brothers who were recognized on sight, as they did not fade into the background as he seemed to, but that was not the biggest issue at present. “I am simply out for a walk. And wondering why one of my cousins finds herself stuck in a window.” His lips twitched. Obviously, Artanis had been planning to sneak out somewhere, and it had not gone as she planned. Where she had been intending to go at this hour though, and why she had seen fit to depart through a window rather than a door, eluded him.

Artanis scowled but did not answer. Looking away from him, she gave her pinned cloak a savage yank. The fabric must have torn, for the next thing Makalaurë knew, she had lost her balance and toppled from the window. Moving on instinct, he lunged forward, arms outstretched, bracing himself as she fell onto him, and taking the force of the fall so his cousin did not. Winded, they both fell to the floor in a heap.

Artanis recovered first, her face flushed red with shame, scrambling to her feet (elbowing Makalaurë in the stomach as she did so) and hastily dusting herself off. She held her head high as she answered, but avoided his gaze. “I was simply attempting to leave my home early. I am going to Alqualondë to visit my grandparents, and wish to make good time upon my journey.”

Makalaurë blinked as he regained his feet. “Alqualondë is a three-day ride from Tirion. You surely do not mean to travel alone?”

Artanis tossed her lustrous golden hair back. “And why should I not? My brothers were permitted to make this journey without escort. I see no reason why I should not do the same.”

Makalaurë, well used to hearing such non-answers from his younger brothers, gathered quite a lot from her statement. “Your parents have not given you permission to go without an escort, have they?”

Artanis' fists clenched. “I do not _need_ an escort!”

“Artanis!” Another voice sounded, startling them both, as an ellon with blond hair a shade paler than Artanis', and merry blue eyes, strode round the house to join them. “I _told_ you that you may not travel to see Anatar and Anamil alone. You were to wait for me.”

She scowled, but did not protest further. The ellon, just having noticed Makalaurë, bowed his head in polite greeting. “I thank you for delaying my sister in her foolish antics, my Lord...” He trailed off, waiting for an introduction, no doubt.

Artanis rolled her eyes, looking superior once again. “Honestly, Findaráto! Has the early hour robbed you of your sense?” Her smile took the edge from her words, so that this was not the insult it would have been if it had been addressed to Makalaurë from one of his own younger brothers, and Findaráto, Uncle Arafinwë's eldest child, only laughed in reply.

“Very well, Artanis, if you recognize our companion, would you care to introduce me?” Then, he turned to look at Makalaurë. “You must forgive us our teasing.” Those bright blue eyes narrowed. “You do look familiar...”

Findaráto's smile was contagious, and Makalaurë found himself returning it. “I thank you, but there is no reason for you to recognize me at once, for we have rarely met. I am-”

“Makalaurë!” Findaráto beamed suddenly, for his eyes had alighted on the harp that he carried. “By the Valar, Cousin, I haven't seen you since the Welcoming Celebration for your two youngest brothers, what has it been, seven years?”

Artanis huffed. “That's only because Uncle Fëanáro doesn't care to-”

“Set aside his important smith-work to spend idle time at Anatar's court.” Findaráto cut across his sister hastily, his expression turning worried, as if he feared to offend Makalaurë by speaking ill of his atar. He cleared his throat, in an ill-disguised attempt to change the subject. “Anyway, as Artanis has no doubt told you, we are going to spend some time with our Amil's parents in Alqualondë.” Without warning, his face lit up. “Would you like to come with us?”

Makalaurë's jaw dropped. _Go with them?_ Travel for three days with cousins he hardly knew, to spend who knew how much time in a place he had never seen and never been invited to see?

Artanis' eyes were gleaming now, too, and she had a sly look upon her face. “Oh, please, say you'll come, cousin! Anatar's people are renowned minstrels, you know.” She paused. “I would love to be able to introduce them to the greatest musician that the Noldor have yet produced.”

Makalaurë's face burned at being referred to as such- he knew he had some skill in music, but did not see himself as so exalted as Artanis implied, and yet... the idea of meeting the famed singers of the Teleri, whom until now he had only heard rumor of, since they scarcely came to Tirion, was so tempting... still, he hesitated. “I have no horse...” He protested, but weakly.

Findaráto laughed. “We have mounts aplenty to spare, cousin. Say you'll come? It will make Artanis' company less tedious upon the journey.” He winked at Makalaurë when Artanis scowled indignantly, though, again, there was a light-hearted air to the siblings' banter, something Makalaurë had not known among his own brothers, where everything was taken seriously.

“Well...” Why should he not, after all? He was not an elfling requiring his parents' permission to travel, he was not truly _needed_ at home: the twins would miss him, but he could bring them back a gift each to make up for his absence, and Findaráto and Artanis were kin: there was no reason why he should _not_ accompany them... “As long as word can be sent to my Am- to my parents, informing them of where I have gone, I see no reason why not.”

Findaráto's smile doubled in intensity, becoming almost dazzling, as he immediately turned to re-enter his home. “I will have Atar send word to Uncle Fëanáro and Aunt Nerdanel that I have invited you along with us. Artanis, take Makalaurë to the stables and find him a horse, will you?”

“No, Findaráto, I thought to make him walk to Alqualondë.” Artanis rolled her eyes at Findaráto's retreating back, before taking Makalaurë's hand and half-dragging him along with her. She was, he noted with surprise, very strong for an elleth, especially one not yet full grown.

Thus, before another hour had passed, Makalaurë was mounted upon a roan gelding, riding alongside his cousins along the road that led, eventually, to Alqualondë, listening to Findaráto and Artanis tell him of the Swan Haven, ruled by Olwë, the city that never saw the Light of the Trees and was lit only by Varda's stars, with its carven canals in place of streets, and how travel there was done by boat, not horse.

Uncle Arafinwë had reported, via Findaráto, that he would send word to Nerdanel of Makalaurë's whereabouts, much to Makalaurë's relief. Now he was looking eagerly forward to this new adventure, and trying _not_ to think of how Atar would react when he eventually returned home. For now, he was going to enjoy this time with his cousins, and make the most of seeing a new place- the first time he had ever traveled anywhere without his father and at least one brother alongside him.

The sensation was oddly freeing, like a weight being lifted from his shoulders, and, as they rode further from the parts of Valinor that Makalaurë had known, with the light of the Two Trees fading behind them, the air changed, the heavy warmth of Tirion's streets being replaced by a sharp, refreshing breeze, tangy with salt. Makalaurë breathed in deeply, marveling at the freshness of the air, something he had never known before.

Findaráto must have seen the look of joy on his face, for he reigned in his grey stallion and rode at Makalaurë's side, while keeping an eye on Artanis, who rode on ahead. “Amazing, isn't it? The smell of the Sea-air.”

“It could almost be another world, compared to Tirion.” Makalaurë replied honestly.

“It is! Or it may as well be. You'll see, when we reach Alqualondë. The sound of the Sea on the shore...” Findaráto's eyes turned wistful. “Think how far those waters have come, all the way from the lands in the East, to here. Waters that have touched the lands of our peoples' Awakening...” He shook his head, as if returning to the present from some distant place. “It's said that Ulmo's Maiar make music in the Seas, though I've never heard it. Perhaps you will, with your keen musician's ear?”

Makalaurë smiled, though he felt a little uncomfortable about the ease with which Findaráto spoke of the Valar and Maiar. In his own house, their names were rarely spoken except in occasional exclamations of shock from Amil or Maitimo. To change the subject, he gazed up at the stars, though unlike the Trees, they gave little indication as to what time of day it was. “Should we stop to camp soon? Or do you intend us to ride through the night?”

Findaráto halted his horse abruptly, glancing behind them, at the faint Tree-light, and then laughing aloud. “It is well you accompany us, Cousin, for I had quite lost track of time. We could ride on, but I'd rather rest the horses.” Standing in his stirrups, he cupped his hands to his mouth, that he might speak louder. “Artanis! We're stopping for the night!”

But she had ridden some distance ahead, and although still in sight, she could not hear him- or feigned that she could not. Findaráto sighed, preparing to spur his horse on to catch up with her, giving Makalaurë a put-upon look. “Are your brothers this aggravating?”

“Worse.” Makalaurë murmured under his breath, but he put out a hand to stay Findaráto. Inhaling deeply, he called after his impetuous young cousin himself, in his loudest voice.

“Artanis! It is time to halt! Come hither!”

Findaráto almost winced at the deep, loud tone that Makalaurë had managed to conjure, and he laughed in amazement as Artanis immediately wheeled her grey mare around and rode back towards them. “I'd heard that your voice was powerful, Makalaurë, but that...” He shook his head. “It was almost as if the horse, not my sister, responded.”

Makalaurë couldn't help but grin as he and Findaráto dismounted, untying their bedrolls from the saddles as Artanis rejoined them, halting and dismounting in one smooth movement. She too was staring at Makalaurë. “Did Lord Ulmo himself lend you his voice, to be heard at such a distance, cousin?”

Makalaurë's face reddened once again, unsure if she meant to mock him or not. He shrugged in response. “It's part of being a singer, I suppose, being able to use your voice to its fullest.”

Findaráto snorted. “I have some skill in singing, but my voice could never carry that far. Your voice rivals the depths of the Sea itself!”

Thoroughly embarrassed now, Makalaurë turned away, busying himself with building a fire to cook their evening meal on. Perhaps sensing his unease, Findaráto and Artanis dropped that subject, and turned to discussing Olwë and Alqualondë once again, re-kindling Makalaurë's desire to see the Swan-Havens anew.

Yet, that night, as he drifted into sleep, his dreams were... odd. He saw himself, walking along a beach, harp in hand, voice raised in song, the Sea his only audience. And yet, the ebb and flow of the waves upon the shore, the sound it made... it could almost have been a Song in itself, accompanying his music and complementing it. The music made in the dream sparked a yearning in his heart that he had never felt before, and he wondered what it might mean, even as the dream played out. 

The music still rang in his mind when he awoke.

* * *

**Name Translations:**

**Findaráto: Finrod**

**Artanis: Galadriel**


	3. Chapter 3

The first sight that Makalaurë had of Alqualondë, as he and his cousins galloped towards the city, glimmering in the silvery starlight, almost made him gasp for the beauty of it. He had thought Tirion exquisite, but this... It was, as he and Findaráto had said, almost a whole different world to Tirion. Yet a sudden fear of being unwelcome clenched Makalaurë's heart, and he halted his horse, unsure. What if the Teleri did not want the son of Fëanáro in their city? Valar knew that his Atar had little good to say of the Third Clan, and if Olwë's people knew of that, why should they want anything to do with Makalaurë?

Artanis was the first to notice his abrupt halt, and checked her mount, wheeling about to ride back towards him. “Is aught amiss, Cousin?”

Makalaurë bit his lip, stomach roiling with nerves. What right did he have to be here, after all? “N-no, I... I was just...” _Just what?_ A voice that sounded remarkably like Tyelkormo's mocked him within his mind. _Just losing your nerve after riding for three days to be here, and about to go crawling home with your tail between your legs, like the coward you are?_ He squared his shoulders. His brother was _not_ here, and he would not let the mere memory of his cruel words prevent him from doing what he wanted. “I was just taking in the view. Alqualondë truly is a breathtaking sight.”

Artanis did not look as if she fully believed him, but to his relief, she nodded. “I do love it here, although my home is in Tirion.” She spurred her horse on again, trotting down the road to catch up with Findaráto. “Come, we must go to the palace and greet Anatar Olwë. Then we can show you around Alqualondë properly.”

Makalaurë attempted to swallow his nervousness and followed, praying that this was not a huge mistake on his part. Soon they were passing through Alqualondë's gates, cunningly wrought of coral and pearl. The guards bowed in greeting to Findaráto and Artanis, with murmurs of “Your Hignesses.”

Makalaurë received more than a few curious glances from them, and from bystanders as they entered the city proper and dismounted, leading their horses by hand to the flat ferries that traveled the water-ways, which Alqualondë had in place of streets, but as he was bracketed on either side by his cousins, it was clear that he was welcomed as their guest, and thus he was not pressed by uncomfortable questions. He guessed, however, as they boarded a ferry and its steersman guided them toward the silver-and-white palace, that Olwë would wish for an explanation regarding his presence. He hoped his cousins had thought of what they planned to tell Olwë, for he had no idea!

But his thoughts wandered as he saw more of Alqualondë, the pale buildings glistening and damp from sea-spray, the huge marina that took up the east of the city, the skyline above broken up with the towering masts and billowing sails of the famed swan-ships, the pristine white beach, studded with shells, visible only occasionally as they traveled, but striking Makalaurë's heart with a yearning to walk there, amid the ebb and flow of the waves... And the Teleri! Never had he seen more than a handful of the slender, silver-haired Third Clan, and here they walked everywhere: hawking their wares in the markets, calling upon friends, laughing gaily and freely... Their voices truly were musical and light, many of them bearing harps or lutes, of a more delicate style that he had ever seen before, and Makalaurë suddenly felt awkward and clumsy, comparing his own tall, long-limbed form to those of the smaller Teleri, and imagining his own deep singing voice against their sweeter, lighter lilts- he would drown them out utterly with his music, and they would hate him for it. Why had he thought this was a good idea, again?

But it was too late now to turn back: their ferry had been brought to a halt before a magnificent dock, carved of sea-stone, which led up to the awe-inspiring edifice of the white palace. Findaráto and Artanis, who until now had talked quietly between themselves, letting Makalaurë gawk to his heart's content, now included him in the conversation, aiding him in getting his horse ashore, thanking the steersman who had brought them here, and introducing him properly to the guards who stood at attention at the palace doors.

“Leave your horse here, Cousin.” Findaráto gestured. “The guards will mind them until stable-hands come to fetch them. We are free to go inside.”

Artanis linked her arm with his before Makalaurë could protest. “Yes, let's go. I cannot speak for you, but I'm for a bath. I wish to freshen up before we greet Anatar and Anamil.” She led him past the guards without another glance at them.

Makalaurë, beginning to get the impression that his young cousin was not an Elf, but a tornado in Elven form, had little choice but to do as she wished. Findaráto gave him an amused glance, as if he guessed at his thoughts.

“Don't look so worried. Anatar and Anamil will not bite.” Findaráto rested a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder. “But Artanis is right, we should refresh ourselves before we greet them. Come along, there is room enough in my suite here for us both to bathe. Artanis, we'll meet you down here in about an hour?”

She nodded, and was gone in a blur of gold and blue as her hair and gown swirled in her wake.

Makalaurë allowed himself to be led along by Findaráto, admiring the grandeur of the palace, decorated in stunning pale blues and greens- the colors of the Sea, although he was puzzled: in Tirion, if you entered the palace as a guest, the very first thing you had to do was greet the King and Queen. Anatar Finwë always insisted on that. Yet here, in Olwë's realm, it seemed the protocol was different.

“Anatar Olwë is not as rigid about formality as Anatar Finwë.” Findaráto smiled as they headed up a flight of stairs. “We only stand on ceremony here if it is an official Court function. Family visits are more relaxed.”

Some surprise at having his thoughts answered must have shown on Makalaurë's face, because Findaráto chuckled softly. “I thought the very same thing, when it occurred to me to compare visits here to visits to the palace in Tirion. Just relax. Olwë is not Finwë, and I promise you, you will be welcomed. Now come,” He had paused outside a closed door, “These are my rooms, and I don't know about you, but I hear bathwater calling my name.” Opening the door, he ushered Makalaurë inside.

Not long after, as Makalaurë enjoyed a hot bath scented with the essence of some sea-plant he did not know, drawn by servants who treated him just as respectfully as they did Findaráto, a far cry from the attitude of the servants in Makalaurë's own home, who so often whispered about his family, but a change that he found he enjoyed. Upon climbing out, he dried off and dressed himself in what had to be spare clothes of Findaráto's, and he reflected that it was not Artanis alone who could dazzle your thoughts and lead you into obeying before you realized what was happening. Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen weren't like that, so perhaps it was a trait inherited from Olwë? In that case, his introduction to the King of the Teleri promised to be interesting. Makalaurë just hoped that nothing would go wrong, and he would not make a fool of himself somehow.

* * *

**Translations:**

**Anatar: Grandfather**

**Anamil: Grandmother**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characterization of Olwë in this chapter is the work of The_Long_Defeat: all the ideas were hers. His queen Lothwen is an OC, since I don't know if his queen had a name in canon, and the idea of Olwë being friends with Mahtan, and Mahtan's having helped build Alqualondë, is totally made up. I hope it makes sense.

Olwë's throne room struck Makalaurë as... odd. Barely half the size of the cavernous room used for that purpose in Tirion's palace by Anatar Finwë, it was as grand as the rest of the palace, but here, the walls were adorned by murals, the likes of which he had never seen before. Oh, they were stunning, no doubt about it, but they did not depict Elves at all, save as small figures on ships in the background. No, the murals were of sea-scapes- the ocean on a calm day, drawn as if the artist had looked back towards the beach as they drew, or intricate drawings of schools of fish or other sea-creatures that Makalaurë had never even heard of- gargantuan leviathans with black and white flesh, and holes in the backs of their heads, smaller sleek grey fish, still far larger than any fish Makalaurë had yet seen, if the depictions were true to life, and, on the wall behind Olwë's throne, was a depiction of the Vala Ulmo himself, simply standing upon the beach, his expression benevolent, looking out at a crowd of gathered Teleri, two Maiar at his side.

Makalaurë blinked, confused. Was it not a blasphemy for any Elf to make presumptions about any of the Valar, making them into still images in this way? Such things were not done in Tirion, as far as he knew... yet, he reflected, the Valar were so rarely spoken of in his home that perhaps this was just something that he did not know.

Findaráto and Artanis, obviously familiar with this room, did not pause to take it all in as he did, instead, they had rushed forward, towards the throne. Makalaurë tensed, sure that the guards would stop them, and they would be chided for unseemly behaviour in front of the king. Instead, to his shock, Olwë, who until now had remained on his throne, watching the three of them placidly, now stood, his silvery blue water-silk robes swirling around him, his circlet of coral and pearl gleaming, and, disregarding his own personal guards, strode towards his grandchildren, a warm smile brightening his face, holding his arms out for an embrace, which Findaráto and Artanis happily raced into, returning the hug as their Anatar held them close, murmuring greetings.

Makalaurë's jaw dropped in shock. Was this normal, for Findaráto and Artanis to greet King Olwë in this manner?! Anatar Finwë had _never_ been this affectionate with any of his grandchildren- or with his children, for that matter, as far as Makalaurë knew, with the exception of Atar. Yet Olwë's guards seemed not in the least perturbed by their king's actions, as if they were used to it. He had little time to ponder this, however, as Olwë was now walking towards him, one arm around Findaráto's shoulders, the other arm linked with Artanis', as if he wished to show no favoritism to either grandchild. Warm blue-green eyes surveyed Makalaurë curiously. “And who is the friend you bring with you today?” Olwë's voice was low and soothing, and he smiled, but Makalaurë, used to the Court of Tirion, and unable to forget protocols that had been drummed into him since he could walk, bowed low before standing tall as he could, like a guard standing at attention.

“Greetings, Your Majesty. I am Makalaurë, son of Fëanáro.” Even as he spoke, he braced himself, for Atar had always been dismissive of the Teleri: who knew what their king would make of one of his sons, here in his very city?

Olwë, still smiling, regarded him, nodding slowly. “I have often wished to meet more of my grandchildren's cousins. It pleases me that they finally saw fit to introduce me to at least one of them.” He was surveying Makalaurë as he spoke, and his smile broadened. “You have Finwë's eyes, young Makalaurë, though I see more of Mahtan- and Nerdanel- in your appearance.”

Makalaurë's cheeks flushed and he ducked his head. He had not expected such informal speech, or to be addressed so familiarly, and he had no idea that Olwë knew Anatar Mahtan, Amil's father, or that he knew Amil herself, as his words implied, and now he did not know what to say. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

“So my grandchildren persuaded you to join them to avoid having to bring a true escort, did they?” Olwë winked at Findaráto, who simply laughed.

“Guilty as charged, Anatar. Though Cousin Makalaurë did wish to see Alqualondë, so it was not a complete imposition on him.”

“And Makalaurë wishes to spend time with your minstrels while he is here!” Artanis chimed in. “You'll be amazed when you hear him sing, Anatar. Not for nothing is he known already as the finest singer among the Noldor.”

“Indeed, is that so, granddaughter? We will have to let him perform while he is here, so that we can judge that for ourselves.” Olwë and Findaráto were both chuckling now, but Makalaurë, who always hated being the center of attention unless he was singing or harping, felt his face redden further, and would happily have sunk through the floor and disappeared.

It seemed Olwë had noticed his discomfort, for his face sobered, and he returned his full attention to Findaráto and Artanis. “Why do you two not go and find your Anamil, while I become better acquainted with your cousin? I believe she is down at the marina at present.” Though spoken kindly, his words were a clear dismissal, and Findaráto led Artanis away, with bows to Olwë, and promises to see Makalaurë later. A gesture from Olwë had the guards leaving the room as well, though it was likely they merely waited outside the doors.

Alone with Olwë, Makalaurë squirmed for a few minutes, before taking a deep breath and looking up, surprised to find the King of the Teleri looking at him with kindness, an understanding smile on his face.

“This place must seem very strange to you. Well do I remember the formality of Tirion from my visits to my daughter.” Olwë shook his head, his smile turning wry. “I know not how Finwë copes, not being able to so much as breathe the wrong way at Court.”

That startled a laugh from Makalaurë, for that was how he felt about Court- and life in Tirion in general, if he was honest. To have his very thoughts echoed by Olwë was... a relief, almost. But despite his tension easing, he could not think of anything to say. _I wish I was like Maitimo_. His older brother could find words in any situation.

Olwë rested a hand on Makalaurë's shoulder. “It is a fine day, and I find it stifling to remain indoors. Would you care for a brief walk?”

“I... that would be fine, your Majesty, if that is what you wish.”

To Makalaurë's surprise, as they left the throne room, Olwë slung an arm round Makalaurë's shoulders as he had around Findaráto's earlier, a clear sign of an older kinsman's friendship for a younger one. “Very well. And you need not call me 'Your Majesty', Makalaurë. You are Finwë's grandson, and cousin to my own grandchildren, and thus, close enough to be kin. My name is Olwë.”

“Yes, your-”

Those green-blue eyes narrowed in mock warning.

“Yes... Olwë.” Makalaurë corrected himself, trying not to go red in the face again.

Olwë led him from the throne room, through a door that Makalaurë had not noticed until now, which led directly outside. Breathing in the cool, salt air that seemed unique to Alqualondë, and letting the breeze ruffle his hair, Makalaurë felt himself relax, even as he walked side by side with the King, and people stared. Eager for the silence to not become awkward, Makalaurë screwed up his courage and voiced something that was puzzling him. “You said I resemble my amil's father, but I was not aware that you knew him....?”

Olwë smiled. “Mahtan was one of the architects of Alqualondë. I consulted with him often as the city was being built, and we became quite good friends. We still write to one another on occasion, and I always call on him when I visit Tirion. I actually knew your mother as a girl- she even, when she was small, referred to me as 'Uncle'.”

Makalaurë's eyes widened. “I did not know...”

Something flickered in Olwë's gaze. “No, well, it seems that your father is so occupied in his smith-work and crafting that he has little time to spare for the acquaintances of his wife's family.”

Unsure what he could say without criticizing his atar, Makalaurë sighed. Olwë cleared his throat.

“Well, anyway, I am pleased to finally get to meet one of Mahtan's numerous grandsons.” He paused. “I admit, I had already heard of your skill in music, from my correspondence with Mahtan, and I am eager to hear what you can do. I will arrange for you to meet some of my minstrels while you are here, and perhaps you will honor us with a performance?”

He seemed so eager that Makalaurë could only nod. And, truth be told, he _did_ want to hear the opinions of Teleri minstrels, see what they thought of his music. "Thank you, Olwë." Oh, it felt strange to call a king by his given name! But that was what he had been told to do, so he would. "I look forward to it."

“Good. Then that's settled. For now, would you care for a walk along the beach while the fine weather holds?”

Another nod, for the beach that Makalaurë had only glimpsed _had_ tempted him to explore, but... “While the fine weather holds?” He frowned, forgetting for a moment that he was almost challenging the king's words. “Is not the weather here usually good?”

Olwë laughed, shaking his head. “No, things are not as orderly here as there are in Tirion, young one. Storms can roll off the sea with little warning, and they have been known to cause damage. Thus, we make the most of each fine day while it lasts. Come.”

He turned off the main street, heading down a narrow path sprinkled liberally with sand. Makalaurë followed, and gasped. Within minutes, they were facing the beach, a broad expanse of golden sand, studded with pearls and seashells that glittered in the starlight- so strange to Makalaurë, who was used to the far stronger light of the Trees- with the ocean rolling out before them, endless, with no clear distinction between the rolling waves and the sky where they met at the distant horizon.

To Makalaurë's shock, Olwë was slipping off his fine shoes and tying his long silk robe up around his waist, leaving his tunic and breeches uncovered. He gestured for Makalaurë to remove his own boots, which, bemused, he did.

“The best way to walk on sand is barefoot.” Olwë explained. “It's more effort than you realize to walk on something that shifts and molds beneath your feet, and going shod will only make it harder for you. Besides, getting sand out of shoes is a task only the Valar can complete successfully!” He laughed, and after a second, Makalaurë joined in. Indeed, it was hard to remain stoic around Olwë, he had a way about him that just made you relax, which Makalaurë appreciated- it was refreshing for being so new to him.

They walked along the sand, Olwë telling Makalaurë more of Alqualondë and life here, while pointing out various notable features of the city that were visible from the beach. At one point, they went so far as to walk down to the sea, and, at Olwë's urging, Makalaurë joined him in wading in and letting small waves wash over his feet and ankles, laughing at the sensation. Findaráto and Artanis joined them eventually, as did Olwë's wife Lothwen, and much splashing of one another while laughing ensued.

 _I wish Olwë, not Finwë, was my anatar_. The thought sprung from nowhere, and was unfair, Makalaurë knew, for he did love Finwë, but around Olwë, he felt... freer, and less as if he was constantly being judged and found wanting. He could not imagine speaking so freely with Anatar Finwë, nor could he picture the King of the Noldor doing something as humble as walking barefoot upon a beach, wading in the sea and making a game of splashing with his family, simply for pleasure.

A strange chirping sound reached his ears, coming from the sea, and he glanced towards the noise, puzzled. He had heard the wailing screeches of many seabirds since they'd been here, but what manner of creature made such a clicking, chirping sound?

To his amazement, some distance out to sea, the water frothed and broke, and a sleek grey creature launched itself into the air, curling into a ball, then curving in a perfect dive before dropping back beneath the surface. Another followed it, and another, and another, jumping and rolling through the waves as if they were performing for the watching Elves. The chirps and clicks came from these creatures, and Makalaurë was astounded that any fish could make such a noise. Belatedly, he realized that these were the creatures depicted in the murals in Olwë's throne room. They were magnificent to behold!

Watching them play, he was spellbound at their carefree frivolity. No doubt these creatures danced in that way for a reason, but to his eyes it looked like nothing more than a game, and, watching their movement, and listening to the sounds of the waves, notes began unfurling in his mind, a song to show the play and joy of these creatures- dolphins, Findaráto had named them, explaining to Makalaurë that they were not in fact fish, but hot-blooded sea mammals. Makalaurë had never heard of such a thing!

More and more of the new song played out in his mind. He did not even realize he was vocalizing aloud until he had to pause for breath, and found Olwë, Lothwen, Findaráto and Artanis all staring at him, wide-eyed.

“A song for the dolphins...” Olwë's tone was entranced. “I could almost _hear_ their play in your song...”

“And I have never heard a voice so exquisite.” Queen Lothwen turned to Findaráto and Artanis. “Small wonder you have kept him hidden away in Tirion: our musicians will not want to let him leave!”

Laughter followed Lothwen's statement, with Artanis then proclaiming that Makalaurë 'belonged' to the Noldor and they were keeping him, thank you very much. Then Findaráto caught Makalaurë's gaze. “Would you sing that again? That song was amazing.”

Biting his lip, waiting to be certain he would not be boring Olwë and Lothwen if he did, Makalaurë inhaled deeply and began his latest song once again, inwardly thrilled to have an audience that was not his amil or his baby brothers, and that did not constantly jest, calling him a 'songbird' for his efforts, as Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke usually did. As he sang, the waves seemed to quieten, as if the very Sea were listening, and even the screeching gulls went silent.

He didn't even truly notice Findaráto procuring parchment and ink from somewhere and listening intently, busily scribbling down the notes that he was singing, making a permanent record of his song, nor did it occur to him that Olwë would be ensuring that the 'Dance of the Dolphins' would find its way into Telerin music schools, with himself credited as the creator. For now, he was simply singing his joy at discovering such wondrous creatures as these dolphins, and curious about what other mysteries the Sea might be concealing.


	5. Chapter 5

Makalaurë's eyes were locked on the ocean, stretching out into the distance, glinting black and silver in the starlight, as he walked along the beach. According to his cousins, it had been Telperion's blossoming when he had slipped out to take a walk- evidently the Teleri had some means of judging the Minglings of the Trees by comparing them to the rise and fall of certain constellations, and Findaráto and Artanis shared in that skill, but just how it worked eluded Makalaurë.

He had been in Alqualondë for over a week now, being shown around the place (making sure to buy a small gift to take home for the twins, two small figurines carved from coral, a dolphin for Ambarussa and a strange creature called a seahorse for Ambarto) and, generally, feeling more relaxed and comfortable than he ever did in Tirion, unless he was alone with Amil, while Olwë liaised with the Musicians' Guild of Alqualondë, trying to arrange for a meeting between Makalaurë and the most promising of the Telerin minstrels and apprentices, insisting that they could learn from one another. It had taken some time, but, in a few hours, just after mid-morning, he was to be introduced to a gathering of senior students from Alqualondë's renowned Music Conservatory, and his nerves were getting the better of him. Fears of not bring good enough to compare to them, of making a fool of himself, kept circling in his mind, preventing him from retiring to sleep, hence the desire to seek solitude that had led him to the beach at this hour. Walking aimlessly, he let his eyes drift closed, allowing the repetitive sound of the waves brushing the shore to soothe him.

As he rounded a bend on the coastline, faint humming floated towards him on the breeze, disturbing his thoughts, and his eyes shot open, blinking. He had come out at this late hour to be alone, surely there was no-one else on the beach? Glancing around, he saw a figure, a slender ellon, standing with his back turned, some distance from Makalaurë. Hair just a few shades off true Telerin silver fell in a braided rope down his back, and he was wearing a simple sleeveless grey tunic and tan trousers, but was also barefoot and knee-deep in the sea, stooping every so often, grabbing something from beneath the surface, and setting whatever it was into a basket on his arm. Curious, Makalaurë strode closer, wondering if he should clear his throat to announce his presence. He did not want to startle the ellon, who seemed so intent upon... whatever he was doing.

It became a moot point when he inadvertently trod upon a shell, and the resulting crunch seemed, to him, to be as loud as a crack of thunder. He winced at the noise, taking a step back as the ellon whirled round with a gasp. Makalaurë backed up further, his hands outstretched, palms facing outwards, trying to look harmless.

It took him several seconds to realize that the 'ellon' was an elleth, mainly because her unusual pale-green eyes, that took up a disproportionate amount of her tanned face, seem to draw him into their depths. Red blotches bloomed in her cheeks as her eyes narrowed in anger.

“Why were you spying on me?”

Her defensive, put-upon tone startled Makalaurë out of the strange hypnosis her eyes had cast upon him, and he swallowed hard, trying to find words to calm her. “I wasn't, I was merely out walking, and stumbled across you...”

She stood taller, tossing her braid back over one shoulder, lip curling. “I'm sure!”

Makalaurë could not help but notice, now, that she was clutching the basket so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. “I have no intention of stealing your belongings, if that is what you fear. You need not clutch the basket as if it might make a bid for escape.” He had intended it to be a jest, but had a feeling it hadn't worked. Now, she was glaring at him.

“Who are you, anyway?” She demanded. “I gather my family's wares for the market every day at this time, as I have done for years, and I've never seen you before, here _or_ at the market. And you look... different. You're not even from Alqualondë, are you? You must be one of the Noldor...” Those startling ice-green eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, so close to the city?”

Makalaurë thought fast. She had spoken of gathering wares for sale, and helping at a market, so clearly she was no member of Alqualondë's nobility, and thus she had no idea who he was. And yet, she had asked for his name... Seized by a sudden madness, wanting to see if he could befriend someone who knew nothing of his title, or his atar's name, he inclined his head in greeting. “My apologies. My name is Makalaurë, and yes, I am of the Noldor of Tirion.” He could not bring himself to completely lie, but he deliberately said naught of his titles. “My cousins, who have kin here, are paying a visit to Alqualondë, and they invited me along. And I truly was simply taking a walk. I apologize again if I disturbed you, my- dear.” He bit his tongue quickly. She had not reacted to his name, suggesting that she did not know it, and had he addressed her as 'my Lady', that would have ruined any attempt he made at feigning not being of high birth. He couldn't resist a glimpse at the basket, taking a small step closer. “I do admit to being curious though, about what sort of 'wares' you can harvest from the Sea.” He'd considered that it might be fish, but surely she had not waded in deep enough to catch any? Besides, the basket did not smell as raw fish tended to.

She looked confused for a minute, then laughed. “Of course. A Noldo wouldn't put much value on jewels gathered from the Sea. All of you spend all your days slaving in forges, from the tales I've heard.”

“Not _all_ , but yes, many Noldor are craftsmen.” Makalaurë shrugged. “What did you mean by 'jewels from the Sea?'”

Imitating his shrug, she moved the basket slightly so he could see within. He blinked, puzzled. Closed shells. That's what her bounty looked like. His lack of comprehension must have showed, because she laughed again, the sound merry and carefree, and, reaching in, pried one of the shells open to expose what lay within, a coating of flesh on the shell itself, and a strange milk-white orb in the centre. “These are clams, you see? The meat within the shell can be stewed, and a number of the clams contain pearls, which are used as jewellery among my people.”

“Oh.” Makalaurë flushed, feeling like an idiot- she made it sound so obvious. “I've never seen a clam before. The pearl is beautiful.”

She gave him a kindly smile, which he returned, somewhat bashfully. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I'm sorry if I was rude to you earlier. You startled me, and, if I'm honest, I'm uncomfortable being caught fishing. I like it, but my doing so is frowned upon, which is why I'm here at this hour, instead of in the morning when the others gather to go clamming. Usually, it's the ellyn who do such things, but I am my parents' only child, so...” She shrugged once again.

“What rubbish.” Makalaurë stated, with feeling. “If you have skill at something, and enjoy it, you should simply do it, and hang what others say about you.” Those words came from his heart- how long, as a child, had he agonized over his longing for music, when he had half believed he _needed_ to become a craftsman like Atar, before he'd realized he never would and did not want to?

Her face colored, although this time Makalaurë suspected it might be from pleasure, not anger. “Thank you. It's nice to hear that there is someone who agrees with me.”

He met her gaze, wanting to stare at those enchanting eyes once again- such a strange color, that almost-silver green! “It's just sense if you ask me, to make use of your own talents.”

Their eyes met, and held, as if the whole world ceased to be while they explored each other's eyes. Several minutes passed before she cleared her throat, breaking eye contact with him, her face now flushed, her breathing as rapid as the pounding of Makalaurë's heart, which had picked up tempo for no obvious reason- he was only standing still!

“Uh... I have to be getting these clams home to sort, or my Atar and I will never be ready for the early morning market. I'm sorry, I have to go.” She began backing away, then paused. “It was nice to meet you, Makalaurë. I hope to see you again. Perhaps if you come to the fisherman's market?” There was a clear hope in her eyes, and when Makalaurë found himself nodding, she beamed, the expression making her eyes turn almost incandescent. “I will look forward to that then.”

She turned to go, and only then did Makalaurë rouse his wits. “Wait!”

She turned to face him, one delicate eyebrow arching.

“I didn't get your name.” And suddenly, even though he had not told her half of the truth of himself, and unsure if he ever would, still, he did know that he wished to meet with her again. And doing so would be hard without knowing her name.

Another one of those bell-like laughs sounded, her lips curving in a bow-like shape, as she shook her head- at him? At herself? He had no idea. “How foolish of me. My name is Ëarlossë.” Giving him a wave of farewell, she dashed off down the beach and was gone.

“Ëarlossë.” Makalaurë murmured to himself. Sea-flower. A lovely name, and a fitting one, he mused, as he turned and headed back to the palace, his nerves about meeting the musicians of Alqualondë all but forgotten, drowned out in the recollections of her chiming laugh and the gleam in those startling green eyes.

He did not yet know how, but he _would_ find a way to meet her again. Preferably without him having to reveal his true identity and potentially scare her away. He'd never made a friend outside of the families of nobility before, and something about Ëarlossë fascinated him. An only child... such a thing was almost unheard of in Valinor. Perhaps her parents had not been married long, and she was but their first child? That would make more sense, surely. But he still wished to speak with her again, to learn more about her, her family and her life, so different to anything he had known. He'd have to find a way to sneak to the market she had mentioned, before leaving Alqualondë, and speak to her again, perhaps work out some way of writing that did not involve the seal of the House of Fëanáro appearing on any letters he sent...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ëarlossë is an OC. Anything and everything about her is made up.


	6. Chapter 6

Thoughts of Ëarlossë kept Makalaurë distracted and in a good mood throughout breakfast, although he did not tell anyone of his early morning encounter: for one thing, he was not certain if he was permitted to take walks alone. It had not been forbidden, but then again, he had not asked. For another, as kind and accommodating as Olwë, Lothwen, Findaráto and Artanis were, he doubted they would approve of his befriending a commoner. The morning flew past, and before he knew it, he was clutching his harp and being escorted to Alqualondë's finest music conservatory, and ushered into a room full of senior students and instructors. To his relief, Findaráto had accompanied him, as it seemed he had attended such gatherings before, and had even joined in a concert once, some time ago. He had brought along his own harp, in case Makalaurë played something that required accompaniment. Makalaurë was curious to hear Findaráto playing too, although he understood that might not happen today.

Artanis had wished to come along as well, but Lothwen had distracted her granddaughter by allowing her to help in planning the farewell feast for the three of them, since they would need to return to Tirion soon, and were leaving the next day. Makalaurë had tried not to think of that too much- Atar's wrath upon Makalaurë's return did not bear thinking about until he had to- but he was glad of Findaráto's presence today for moral support, and also because, left to face these people alone, he just knew he would have lost his courage and fled.

Now, under the weight of dozens of curious (and sceptical) Telerin eyes, if it had not been for his cousin's hand upon his shoulder, he feared he would have still done so. Instead, he inhaled deeply, stood tall and attempted to look confident as Findaráto introduced him, and explained that King Olwë had recently heard Makalaurë's singing, and now wished for Makalaurë to get to know some of the aspiring minstrels here, and compare his skill to their own.

Some of the elder pupils protested this, claiming that a Noldo could not possibly match a Teler in singing, no matter who his father was, which had Makalaurë flushing scarlet, even as the outspoken pupils were swiftly reprimanded. Then, somehow, before Makalaurë had had a chance to say yea or nay, it had been decided to test his voice and skill upon the harp, to show what he was capable of, and he was being ushered into a performance hall and shown onto the stage, while Findaráto and the others who had come to greet him took seats in the auditorium below.

Nerves churned in his stomach once again, but the familiar weight of his harp in his hand reassured him, as did Findaráto's comforting smile and nod. Clearing his throat, he fixed his eyes upon the far wall, imagining that he was simply testing the sound levels of an empty hall, adjusted his hands upon the harp strings, and began with a prayer-hymn of thanksgiving to Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar, a song that was known to all, and usually sung at festivals and the like. It had quite a range of notes, and thus would show his voice to its fullest. When he had finished that, feeling somewhat braver, he immediately began one of his own compositions, a song that he had created in praise of the Trees. Once this song was done, he decided, he would wait for feedback, see what the Teleri thought of him. As he lost himself in the song, as he always did, the tune and words coming to him with ease once he had begun, he could not help but feel a mixture of doubt and anticipation. Findaráto, Artanis, Olwë and Lothwen might have been being kind to him upon the beach a few days ago, after all: what would several dozen trained minstrels make of his music?

When the last echoing notes of his song faded, and the hall was left in utter silence, his heart began to pound. Had he truly sounded so bad to the Teleri? He could barely bring himself to look down at them, his grip on his harp becoming white-knuckled. Finally daring a glance at Findaráto, he saw that his cousin was beaming, while deep in conversation with an older ellon, who, if Makalaurë remembered correctly, was head of the Musician's Guild of Alqualondë. The man appeared astounded, almost awestruck, and Findaráto was nodding as he spoke, too softly for Makalaurë to hear. The other members of the gathered audience gawked for a long moment, then, as Makalaurë, at a sign from Findaráto, climbed down from the stage, they all but swarmed him, bombarding him with comments and questions.

“That was amazing!”

“I've never heard a voice so deep and beautiful!”

“Who taught you to sing?”

“Where did you learn such skill with the harp?”

“Do you do exercises to keep your voice at its best?”

“What exercises do you do?”

“That song about the Trees was incredible- I could _see_ them before my eyes as you sang of them. Was that song entirely your own? Have you composed other music?”

“Have you scribed any of your songs to parchment? I'd love to try to learn the one you just sang, if possible!”

“Why weren't you sent here to be schooled as an elfling, with a voice such as yours?” That came from one of the tutors.

Makalaurë's face burned at the praise and the scrutiny. Which question was he meant to answer first? “Thank you.” He ducked his head a little, not used to being the recipient of all this attention. “I, uh... I taught myself, really. My tutor taught us- my brothers and I- to read music, but playing and singing, I really just started doing that on my own. And I do compose and play many of my own songs, but I've never scribed any of them.” He shrugged. “I did not think any but me would be interested in them.”

Now it seemed every single one of the crowd, except for Findaráto, stared at him like beached fish.

“You cannot be serious! Your harp playing, your skill in song, and the song you just performed, your own creation... _all that_ is natural skill?”

The head of the Guild was just staring at him in amazement. “I think I shall have to write to your father, Prince Makalaurë. One with a gift such as yours would be welcomed here in the Guild. I expect, in a few short years, you could well become one of our instructors!”

A thrill suffused Makalaurë, and he stammered his thanks, before being swamped by the students once more, and hauled off, being pelted with demands to scribe the song of the Trees he had just played for them to learn, and any others he wished to share. He knew, of course, that any letter sent to Atar requesting Makalaurë's moving to Alqualondë to study and teach music would be utterly rejected: Atar would never let him leave Tirion for something that 'trivial', and it would lead to yet more problems between Atar and Amil if Makalaurë argued, but there was little point in trying to get the Guild's leader to drop the subject- he could not explain why, after all, and in the end, what did it matter? The ellon would write to Atar, Atar would take no notice, and the issue would be forgotten.

So, for now, he let himself enjoy the company of like-minded Elves, who loved music as much as he did, writing the Song of the Trees for them, and several other of his compositions, taking the aspiring minstrels' advice on the arrangements and lyrics, then listening to them being played and sung by others, correcting the musicians as needed, and feeling a strange swell of pride at his music being so much acclaimed.

Later, amid many farewells and promises to write to them from Tirion, beaming all the while, Makalaurë let Findaráto lead him back to the palace, deep in thought. He'd enjoyed today, he truly had. Perhaps if the head of the Guild did write to Atar, he could at least try and make his father see how much it would mean to him to attempt this- Atar allowed Tyelkormo to go and hunt with Lord Oromë on occasion, why should his wish to at least visit Alqualondë regularly be any different?

Findaráto led him past a busy market, where sellers hawked their wares, and Makalaurë came to an abrupt halt, struck by the thought that perhaps this was the market that Ëarlossë had referred to in their early-morning meeting?

“Findaráto, would you mind going on without me? I just remembered, I need to choose a gift for my other brothers. I did not see much to their liking at the market used by the nobles, so I thought perhaps I might find something here, but I do not wish for us to be gone too long- Olwë and Lothwen may worry, and your sister certainly will.” It was not an utter lie, Makalaurë consoled himself- he did need to get small gifts for his other brothers, otherwise they would complain about being left out, even if they would not truly want any gift he gave them, and would likely mock whatever he chose. That he hoped to see Ëarlossë again was just a side benefit. Really.

Findaráto, thankfully, took him at his word, and smiled. “You're good to your brothers, Makalaurë. I would gift Aikanáro and Angaráto with something if I'd traveled somewhere they had not been, but of course, they have been to Alqualondë many times before. I will leave you then, though Anatar Olwë will insist I come and escort you back later, so I will see you back at the south entrance of the market in... an hour?”

Makalaurë nodded, dutifully waving his cousin off, before stopping to consider his appearance. His brown hair was unbound, and he wore a pale-blue tunic with dark grey trousers, some of the least bright colors in the wardrobe Findaráto had generously lent to him, and black boots. He wore no jewellery, and his harp, secured to his back, though made of fine wood, was not ornately detailed, and should not reveal his highborn heritage. Satisfied that how he looked did not give away his identity, he strode into the market, eyeing stalls here and there, looking for anything that might appeal to Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke, preferably the same gift for all three, to minimize any squabbling, while keeping an eye out for Ëarlossë. He truly did wish to see her again before departing Alqualondë the next day.

“Makalaurë?” Her voice, coming from behind him, was so sudden that he half thought he had imagined it as he whirled round.

Ëarlossë stood nearby, a pleased smile on her face, her arms laden down with several wrapped packages. “I thought that was you- there are not too many brown heads in Alqualondë.”

Makalaurë chuckled, as, out of instinct, he reached to take some of the parcels that were straining her arms. “I suppose not.” He grunted at the weight of her burdens. “Shopping? I mean, are you shopping?”

She laughed gently. “Of course! What else would I be doing, carrying all this around a market?”

“Good point.” He hefted the parcels he had taken, trying not to grunt at the weight. “Are you buying someone's Begetting Day gift?” That was the first thing he thought of when he considered 'shopping', although there were a great number of packages if that were the case.

Ëarlossë shook her head, almost regretfully. “No, there are no Begetting Days in my family for months. I'm just getting some more meat and other supplies to restock our pantry.”

“Don't you have s- others, who could do that? Your parents, I mean.” Makalaurë could have kicked himself for almost letting 'servants' slip out. As if Ëarlossë and her family, who worked in a market like this, would have servants!

“They do, but it's my turn this week. Now I'm no longer an elfling, we all share in the housework. I'm sure your family is the same at home.”

“Uh...” Makalaurë tried, for a moment, to imagine Atar, Amil or his brothers carrying out household tasks beyond those related to the forge, the workshop, or to dealing with game after a hunt, and failing. “We.... help out when needed, yes.” That they were rarely needed to cook or clean up after themselves did not need to come into it.

Ëarlossë tilted her head to one side. “We? I meant to ask you earlier but forgot. Do you have siblings?”

 _Six brothers, three of whom seem to hate me_. “I have a few brothers, yes. One older, some younger.”

Ëarlossë looked wistful. “That must be nice, to have ready-made companions, someone to share work with, and to make your house less quiet. I bet you always have someone to talk to.”

Makalaurë grinned wryly. “There are downsides, like when you have to intercede to stop one brother quarrelling with another over something minor and it comes to blows, or when everyone is shouting at once... sometimes, I'd trade several brothers for a chance to live in a peaceful house.”

Ëarlossë laughed. “I suppose you always want what you have not got.” She fidgeted for a second, then bit her lip. “If you aren't busy, you could come to lunch with my parents and I, see what a quiet home is really like.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to impose...”

“Really, it will be fine. Atar and Amil are always worried that I have no friends, so they'll be thrilled to meet you, and you'll give us something to talk about that we haven't already discussed to death.” She fixed her eyes on him beseechingly. “Please?”

“Well.... alright.”

Ëarlossë beamed brightly, and Makalaurë, dazzled, forgot where he was for a second. Recovering his wits, he cleared his throat awkwardly before managing to speak. “I need to choose some small gift for my brothers, something that will survive the journey back unscathed. If you'll show me where I could find such things, I'd be happy to join you and your family for lunch.”

“Oh, that will be easy. Old Elrún has a stall full of handmade trinkets and such for those who are visitors to Alqualondë to take home for family and friends.” She led him to a quieter corner of the market, indicating an almost deserted stall, behind which sat an ellon with a beard, indicative of great age, perhaps even one who had made the Great Journey from Cuiviénen. Eons of age shone in his dark eyes, and Makalaurë nearly shuddered as he approached, after handing the parcels he held back to Ëarlossë to free his hands. Looking quickly over Elrún's wares, he selected a deadly-looking fish labelled as a shark, then, noting there seemed to be different types, painted different colors, he chose two more. One was grey with a white underside, one a similar color but with odd brown striping along its back, and the last a brownish color with white spots all over its body. One each for Tyelkormo, Atarinke and Carnistir. Hopefully, with their gifts being 'the same', or close enough, they would not bicker over whose was best. Paying Elrún for his selections quickly, he prayed that neither the ellon nor Ëarlossë had seen the amount of coin in the small bag he'd tied to his belt earlier that day- money given to him by Olwë, drawn from the allowance allotted to the Noldor royal family when they visited Alqualondë. Makalaurë was sure this really only meant Arafinwë and his children, as Atar never came here, nor did any of Makalaurë's brothers, and it was unlikely that Ñolofinwë and his family ever did, but he had not protested- he could not buy gifts for his brothers without coin, after all.

Having settled with Elrún, he reclaimed the parcels he'd handed to Ëarlossë and, pausing briefly to approach a young ellon clad in the garb of a page, and setting his burdens down, he scribbled a note, “For my cousin, explaining that I will be late back,” he explained to Ëarlossë, who nodded, taking him at his word. The note in fact said that he wished for one more stroll along the beach, alone, to make the most of the sea air before leaving Alqualondë tomorrow, and that he would return to the palace in time to ready himself for their farewell feast. Folding the note several times, he wrote Findaráto's name on it, slipping the page a gold coin and instructing him on where and when Findaráto would be found, at the market's south entrance, in around thirty minutes. He also handed the page the parcel containing the gifts he had bought for Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke, instructing him to give that to Findaráto along with the note. The boy's eyes had widened at the gold coin and he nodded very firmly, vowing to see the note and parcel delivered, running off and clutching both items to his chest as if his life depended upon it. Makalaurë considered handing his harp over too, but it was not truly heavy, and he was loathe to entrust something he valued so to a mere page- he had made the harp himself, frame and strings, designed to fit his hands and no others. He could not risk anything happening to it, so it remained slung over his back.

Makalaurë, meanwhile, retrieved his dropped parcels (or Ëarlossë's parcels really, but he did not intend to let her carry them all while he was able to help, thank you very much) and let her lead him back to her home for lunch. He was hungry, after all, and it would not do to turn down an invitation to a friend's home, especially not when she had seemed so happy that he'd agreed to come. He felt a twisting surge of guilt when he considered that he was about to enter Ëarlossë's home and meet her parents under false pretenses, not admitting who he really was, but if he did so now, the invitation would almost certainly be rescinded, and Ëarlossë would be mortified, and like as not refuse to see him again. He did not want that to happen. She intrigued him, and he enjoyed her company, and he thought she felt the same. So he would continue doing as he had so far, giving his first name and as few details about his family as he could, for now.

He _would_ tell her the truth, eventually. When they knew each other better, and she knew that his title did not mean all that much to him, and that he had only hidden it because he genuinely liked her, and did not want to scare her away. She would understand, surely?

He kept telling himself that, trying to quell his misgivings about lying, as she led him up a neatly cobbled path, bordered by a small, well-tended garden, and into a small, two-storey house, with brightly-colored but thin curtains billowing from the open windows.

“Atar! Amil! I'm home! And I brought a friend for lunch!” Ëarlossë pushed the unpainted plain wooden front door open with her shoulder and stepped inside. “Is the food ready?”

“Of course, child!” A male voice called, from a room ahead of them. “But don't be rude and keep your friend waiting in the hall, come and introduce them to us!”

Laughing, Ëarlossë somehow managed to juggle her wrapped bundles to one arm, hooked her free arm through Makalaurë's, and tugged him with her into a small dining room, where a large, old, scarred oaken table and four mismatched chairs took up much of the space. Two of the chairs were occupied, one by an ellon with pure silver hair, but the same green eyes as Ëarlossë, and the other by an elleth with the same hair color, nose and mouth as the girl who stood beside him.

“Atar, Amil, this is Makalaurë.” Ëarlossë smiled, standing as if showing off a prize of some kind, but her cheeks were pink. “He is from Tirion, but has cousins who were visiting here, and came along with them. Makalaurë, this is my atar, Falmagil, and my amil, Eäranna."

Makalaurë's instinct was to bow, but he had a feeling that wouldn't be appropriate here. But how did one greet strangers who'd welcomed you into their home, exactly? He settled for smiling. “I am honored to meet you. You have a lovely daughter.” Wait. Where had _that_ come from? His cheeks flamed at the words that had slipped out. They were true, but still... he hadn't meant to say that!

Thankfully, Ëarlossë's parents seemed to find him acceptable, for Eäranna looked charmed, almost, while Falmagil chuckled. “Well, whatever else may be true of the Noldor, I can see no fault in their manners, if their sons speak so politely!” He pushed out a chair, nodding at Makalaurë. “Sit. We can talk while our ladies serve our meal.”

Ëarlossë had taken the packages he still held from him, and disappeared into what, judging from the scents wafting from within, was the kitchen, before Makalaurë could think of a way to refuse. He sat, suddenly nervous, wondering just what Ëarlossë's atar wished to speak to him about. What if Falmagil somehow knew who Makalaurë was, and intended to confront him for lying to his daughter?

What had he gotten himself into by coming here?

* * *

**Translations:**

**Aikanáro: Aegnor**

**Angaráto: Angrod**

**Eäranna: Sea-Gift**

**Falmagil: Wave-Star**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I don't know if Makalaurë's skill at music is all natural talent, or if he received tutoring in it, but in this story, he's a child prodigy who is largely self-taught. 
> 
> The species of sharks in the carved figures that Makalaurë chooses for his brothers are: Great White shark (for Tyelkormo), Tiger shark (for Atarinke) and Whale shark (for Carnistir).
> 
> Elrún is an OC, though his name is borrowed from older versions of the names of Dior's sons, Eluréd and Elurín.
> 
> Eäranna and Falmagil are OCs, their names created by my amazing friend The_Long_Defeat.


	7. Chapter 7

Makalaurë had relaxed somewhat by the time Ëarlossë and Eäranna began bringing the dishes of food to the table. Falmagil, despite Makalaurë's fears, had only asked him general, friendly questions, which he had answered honestly- to a point, admitting to having 'several' brothers, without specifying the exact number, for surely admitting that he had six brothers would reveal his identity in an instant, as only Atar and Amil had such a large family, and stating that his atar was a smith (true) and his amil was a carpenter (that was stretching the truth somewhat, as Amil was a sculptor, but she _did_ carve things too.) Falmagil had noticed his harp, and Makalaurë had admitted to an interest in music, which had led Falmagil to suggest that he played for them after lunch. That had made Makalaurë's palms sweat, but he had nodded and smiled, while trying to think of ways to get out of it- if he performed here, it would make him far too noticeable, and Falmagil, Eäranna and Ëarlossë would surely spread word of him. All it would take was the wrong person hearing of that- someone who attended the music conservatory, or worked there- and his identity would be revealed.

Thankfully, this was when Eäranna and Ëarlossë began laying out the meal, which brought an end to that discussion. Makalaurë tried not to stare for too long at the food- a simple roasted bird, a selection of unseasoned vegetables, and a choice of water or thin juice to drink. It seemed an absurdly small meal to him, who was used to tables full to bursting, a choice of meats, and more things to fill one's plate than he knew what to do with, sometimes. But nonetheless, he was a guest in this house, and he was hungry, and, he reflected, since he was an unexpected guest, perhaps it was simply that Falmagil and Eäranna had made a simple meal, believing that only they and their daughter would be partaking in it. Surely more effort would be expended if a guest was expected? Satisfied with his own reasoning, he hoped his thoughts had not shown on his face, not wishing to offend his hosts, and allowed Ëarlossë to serve him, giving him a smile, which he returned with murmured thanks, while Eäranna and Falmagil served themselves, Falmagil also filling his daughter's plate before she took her seat.

After a brief prayer of thanks to the Valar and Iluvatar for the meal, a custom Makalaurë knew from state dinners in Tirion, and from the palace at Alqualondë, although it was not a custom his atar upheld, they all commenced eating.

The fare was not of the quality he usually had, the meat tough and gamy, the vegetables bland, but it was all hot, and filling, so he ate his share, making certain to thank the cook- without looking at either Falmagil or Eäranna, since he knew that both ellyn and ellith could cook if the need arose, and he had no idea which of them had produced this meal. Light conversation had peppered the meal, thankfully nothing that might have forced Makalaurë to give himself away, and, relieved, he sipped at his wooden cup of hawthorn juice, enjoying the taste, even though he typically had watered wine with his meals.

When everyone had finished eating, Ëarlossë stood, as if by some unspoken cue, and began clearing the table, carrying dishes and cutlery back into the kitchen. Feeling suddenly awkward again at being left alone with Falmagil and Eäranna, Makalaurë got to his feet, addressing Ëarlossë. “I will help you, if you wish.”

Her eyes widened. “I can't let you do that, you're the guest!”

He glanced back at Falmagil and Eäranna, who were now speaking softly between themselves. “It's fine. I shared in your family's meal, the least I can do is help you clear up afterwards.”

Before she could argue, he stacked several of the serving dishes as she had done, and picked them up, heading for the kitchen where she had taken the other used kitchenware. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Falmagil give him an approving look, and tried not to smile too broadly- apparently, he had done something right, which, for him, in a family setting, was... unusual. Unusual, but welcome.

The kitchen itself was _tiny_ compared to the one in his home. One solid table to prepare food on, a brick oven half the size of the one in Makalaurë's family kitchen (seen only when he'd been corralling Tyelkormo's hounds back in there, out of the main house), a fireplace with a pot of water suspended over it, beginning to shimmer with heat, thick, plank-like shelves that were evidently used to store plates and bowls, and hooks nailed above the shelves. It took Makalaurë a minute to realize these must be used to hang utensils on. Another, half-sized door was on the far side of the kitchen- the pantry, perhaps? He didn't get a chance to ask, as Ëarlossë took his stack of dishes from him, deposited them in an untidy heap on the table with the ones she had already brought in, and went back for the last load. Returning, she pulled on an ill-fitting apron over her gown, removed the now simmering black pot of water from the fireplace, set it on the table (Makalaurë could see an old burn mark beneath it, so clearly this was its normal resting place), grabbed a tough-looking scrubbing brush, many of its bristles missing, and an off-white chunk of soap.

Makalaurë stood for a moment, puzzled, as she seemed to be waiting for something. Turning to look at him, she arched a brow. “Aren't you going to pass me things to wash?”

“Oh!” His face flushing scarlet, he picked up the first dish on the stack and handed it to her, feeling a shock, almost, as his hand brushed against hers. There wasn't room to stand beside her, really, so he hung back and watched as she plunged the dish into the pot of water, set about scrubbing it with the soap and brush, before offering it to him. Still feeling like a fool, he took it, and hesitated. “Is there a towel to dry it on, or...”

Ëarlossë laughed, but not unkindly. “No, not here. I know some homes have linen to spare for such things, but we just set things on the shelves. The heat from the fire and the oven dries them well enough.”

Taking her words as an instruction, he placed the dish on the shelf, watched the water pooling into the center for a moment, frowned, and picked it up again, placing it upside down so the water drained onto the shelf.

Ëarlossë smiled- in approval, he hoped, he'd never done kitchen work before! Her hand was already outstretched for the next item to wash, and, dutifully, he handed it over. She set that one upon the shelving to dry too, and handed her the next item. Soon, they had a rhythm going, and the pile of washing up diminished quickly.

Once they had finished, Ëarlossë dazzled him with a smile. “That went faster than usual! I suppose it's because there were two of us.” A wistful look came into her eyes. “It must be easier for you at home, having brothers to share this sort of work with.”

Makalaurë made a vague sound of assent, not quite meeting her eyes, for of course, none of his brothers had even done such menial work- nor had he, until today. But... “Do your parents not help you?”

“In a way. It's a trade: whoever helps with the cooking is spared the cleaning up afterwards. Atar and Amil cooked today, so washing up was my task. I suppose, with there being several children in your family, you get days off.” Ëarlossë made 'days off' sound like something elusive, to be prized.

Which, he realized with a start, to her, they probably were. If she and her parents did not feel like working, there was no-one there to pick up the slack as there was in Makalaurë's home. He'd never known anything but comfort, fully aware that any work that needed to be done would _be_ done, and paying little heed to who actually did it. He'd taken it all for granted, and it made him feel a little ill. How selfish _was_ he, to never once have thought of this in his entire life so far?

“Makalaurë? Are you well?” Ëarlossë's concerned voice broke into his thoughts, and that only made him feel worse. On top of everything else, he was _lying_ to her, had led her to believe he was someone he wasn't. How could he call himself a friend, never mind anything else, if he wasn't being honest with her?

Inhaling deeply, he looked her in the eyes, and made a decision. This might be madness, but he did not feel comfortable continuing his deception. He had to tell Ëarlossë the truth. “I'm fine, just... thinking. Would it be alright if we went for a walk? I, uh... I'd love to see the beach again.” It was a pitiful excuse, but he wanted to have this conversation somewhere that they hopefully would not be overheard.

She still looked worried, but nodded. “Of course. You should get as much sea air as you can before you go home to Tirion.” She slipped from the kitchen, and he heard her telling her parents where they were going. To his surprise, Falmagil did not insist on a chaperone, apparently trusting them. To Makalaurë, this was odd- any father of a highborn elleth would never let her go out alone with an ellon who might be interested in courting her. Propriety insisted on someone keeping an eye on them. But, in this situation, he was not complaining. The coming conversation was going to be difficult enough without an audience.

Ëarlossë returned to the kitchen, pulling off the old apron and smoothing her hair, before offering her hand to Makalaurë, another odd custom. He was used to linking arms with ellith, not hands, but the sensation was... pleasant, and he found himself smiling. Their hands fit together well. Calling a farewell to her parents, which Makalaurë echoed as he picked up the harp he had set down while sitting at the table to eat, returning it to its customary place strapped across his shoulders, he allowed Ëarlossë to lead him out of the back door, and along a winding route through Alqualondë's narrow streets, which lined each side of the canals, linked by bridges, until they reached the beach. Ëarlossë removed her worn shoes at once, and Makalaurë followed suit, shedding his boots and sighing contentedly at the feeling of the warm, soft sand beneath his feet. The marina was visible from where they were, the fishing ships just beginning to return to dock, the voices of the harbor workers echoing towards them.

They walked for some time in companionable silence, hands still linked, each carrying their discarded shoes in their free hands, seeking a more private location, while Makalaurë struggled to find words to explain why he had not told Ëarlossë the truth from the beginning, preferably ones that would not cause her to hate him. He'd just opened his mouth, to begin with a sincere apology, when Ëarlossë grinned, spotting something just ahead of them, and tugging on his hand, breaking into a run. “Come on, I will show you my favorite view!”

Their hands were still entwined, so he had little choice but to run with her. Rounding a curve on the beach, Ëarlossë came to a halt, gesturing in front of her. Makalaurë stopped abruptly, staring for a very different reason to her, he was sure.

For she was staring, awestruck, at the white edifice of Olwë's palace, glimmering in the starlight. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

“Yes.” He replied honestly. And if he was looking at the starlight glinting in her eyes and off her hair, and not the palace, what did it matter?

“I've always wondered what it might be like, to live there, or somewhere like it, to never _have_ to work if you don't want to...”

Makalaurë frowned a little. “It's not all bliss. There are tedious matters and responsibilities, no matter what life you lead.”

Ëarlossë arched an eyebrow, lip curled in a slight smirk. “Speaking from experience, are you?” It was clear she was teasing him, but Makalaurë grimaced, and he let out a deep sigh.

“In a way.” He steeled himself. “Ëarlossë, I hope you don't hate me for this, but... there's something I need to tell you. I should have told you sooner, but... I didn't wish for you to treat me any differently. I enjoy our friendship, and don't wish to ruin it, but I won't keep lying. I can't, not if we're to remain... friends.” _Or whatever we are_.

Her brow creased in concern. “I enjoy our friendship too, and surely nothing you've done can be that bad as to ruin it. What is it?”

 _If only it was something I had done, and not who I am, that was the problem._ Still, he had resolved to get this out in the open, and he would, even if it did cost him this friendship, it would be his own fault for lying in the first place. Ëarlossë deserved to know the truth before this went any further. Staring straight into her eyes, he willed his voice to remain steady. “My name is Makalaurë, as I told you, but my full name...” He hesitated, sweat beading on his brow. There would be no going back after this; she would accept him or hate him, but at least the deceit would be over. “I am Canafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion, grandson of King Finwë. I am one of the Princes of the Noldor.”

Ëarlossë paled, her beautiful green eyes wide, staring at him as if he had grown a second head, and the silence that fell between them was deafening. He waited, dropping her hand, holding his breath and not even daring to look at her until she responded.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is some abusive behavior from Fëanáro towards Makalaurë in this chapter. I've added appropriate warnings to the story tags, but if this kind of thing upsets you, I'd advise you not to read it.

The silence dragged on until Makalaurë could bear it no longer. His heart pounding, he steeled himself and looked up at Ëarlossë, hoping that his remorse at lying showed in his eyes.

Her eyes were wide, her face almost ashen-pale, mouth gaping in a round shape. “I... why didn't you tell me?” Her voice was quiet, small, pained: nothing like the cheerful, confident manner in which she usually spoke, and Makalaurë's heart lurched.

He swallowed hard, the guilt churning within him making him feel nauseous. “I.... I would have. But when we first met, you were so...” Not friendly, because, at first, on the beach on that early morning last week, she hadn't been, although the memory of her fierce, defensive words made him want to smile, “You were so... confident, and not in the least afraid or deferential to me. And I know it's because you had no idea who I was, but... I liked speaking to you, so I just... left out who my atar is. And then, when I saw you, earlier today, you invited me to lunch, and if I had told you then... you'd have never spoken to me again. You'd have been too nervous, or thought yourself not good enough, or something...” He shook his head, convinced his words were falling flat, having no effect. She would never forgive him for deceiving her, and he'd never see her again after today.

Maybe that was what he deserved, for lying, because what sort of person lied to someone they had begun to care about?

He was staring at the ground once again, his shoulders slumped in defeat, waiting for Ëarlossë to snarl at him, inform him just how despicable he was, and how she never wished to set eyes on him again, when he heard her inhale shakily, and her feet moved into his line of vision. She had actually stepped _closer_ to him.

“You're... not the type of person I imagined a High Prince to be.” Her voice was still shaky, but tinged with humor now. Makalaurë's gaze shot to hers, amazed to see her smiling, albeit weakly. The tight fist that had been clenching his heart relaxed somewhat.

“And... what did you think a High Prince would be like?” He was curious to hear this- after all, his atar, his brothers and himself were just Elves like anyone else: he'd never thought of their rank in society as making them somehow better than others, purely by accident of birth.

Ëarlossë shrugged. “You know, commanding, entitled, sure of themselves... but you're not at all like that.”

Makalaurë spluttered out a laugh. “I think you're describing my brothers, not me.”

Comprehension dawned in Ëarlossë's eyes. “That's right, you have six, don't you?” She blushed slightly. “Even here in Alqualondë, we've heard of the legendary... virility of Prince Fëanáro and Lady Nerdanel, in creating such a huge family.”

Makalaurë went red. He cleared his throat before replying, suddenly desperate to change the subject- he did not wish to think of his parents in _that_ way. “Anyway, I apologize again for not telling the full truth. I just did not wish you to decide you wouldn't speak with me again...”

She twisted her hands. “I shouldn't, really. I am not the type of person one such as you should be befriending, Maka- Your Highness-”

He raised a hand to stop her, at once. “That kind of thing is why I wished my identity kept secret. My name is Makalaurë, and if I'd wished to be known only by my title, I would have introduced myself as such last week.”

“But I-”

“Call me Makalaurë. Please, Ëarlossë.” His words came out more like a plea, but he did not care. He did not wish this lively, outspoken elleth to begin treating him as the simpering sycophantic children of nobility he had grown up with did, as someone to be flattered and indulged, only told what they thought he wanted to hear.

She shook her head. “I am the daughter of a fishmonger. A mere merchant.”

“You are my friend. I care not who your parents are, what trade they- or you- are in.” Could she see that he meant it? He prayed so- he had very few friends and did not wish to lose one.

She bit her lip, clearly still unsure, but a thoughtful look came into her eyes. “”You'll be returning to Tirion soon, won't you?”

He nodded, almost sad at the prospect. Although he would be glad to see Amil, Ambarussa and Ambarto, leaving Alqualondë, and the freedom he felt here to be himself, in exchange for the tense, strained, walking-on-a-knife-edge atmosphere of home.. it was not overly appealing. “Tomorrow.”

Ëarlossë's eyes gleamed, just slightly. “You know... I have always wanted to learn music in some manner, but there has never been the time- or the money- for me to have lessons.”

Guessing, or thinking that he did, at where this might be leading, Makalaurë let his lips curve in a smile. “Would learning songs that are meant to accompany the harp appeal to you?”

Ëarlossë let out a giggle. “They might. And, if, say, you, in your friendship, chose to write to me, sending me lessons I could work on alone, I doubt anyone could find grounds to argue.”

“And, in that situation, you would need to write back: one cannot learn without corresponding with one's teacher. I would need to visit Alqualondë once every few months as well, to check on your progress... and if the lessons sent also carried personal letters, who would know?”

“No-one but us.” Her eyes shone with excitement. Whether it was at the prospect of learning music and singing, or glee at the ruse they were considering, he didn't know. “Do you truly mean it? Would you truly write to me, and teach me some of what you know of music?”

He stepped forward, taking her hands in his, again feeling that strange spark where skin brushed skin, not caring that the movement made his boots and her shoes fall, forgotten, to the sand. “I will.” The fact that he had little formal teaching in music himself meant little in that moment. He had picked up almost all that he knew from reading the theory behind it and putting it into practice, why should Ëarlossë not do the same? And, sharing music with a similarly-inclined friend should be enough to at least prevent Atar demanding to know whom he wrote to in Alqualondë, even if it did not prevent his brothers mocking him- but then again, nothing could do that, and he was well used to it by now. Besides, he'd already given his word that he would write to several of the students of the music conservatory here: who would notice if one more letter was added to the stack?

Ëarlossë's fingers laced through his, and that dazzling smile he so enjoyed seeing lit her face again. “Thank you.” She looked hesitant for a second, then, standing on her toes, leaned closer and brushed her lips against his cheek.

Makalaurë's heartbeat went into a gallop, and heat flooded his face, even as it did hers. He had a feeling he was grinning like a fool, but did not care. He struggled to concentrate, and finally managed to ask for her home address- he knew it was the house with the whelks carved above the door, but not the name of the canal-street it resided on. Once he had that, he repeated it over and over in his mind, so he would not forget. He then looked up at the stars, trying and failing to recall what Findaráto and Artanis had told him of using them to tell the time. “I should be heading back soon... there is to be a fe- a meal tonight, before my cousins and I depart.”

Ëarlossë nodded. “It is halfway to Second Mingling, if one uses the Tree-light to tell time.”

 _It's how late?!_ Makalaurë nearly gasped. He had been out _that_ long? He grimaced. “Then I will have to rush back. It would not do to be late to my own farewell dinner.”

Ëarlossë nodded, though her eyes were sad. “I will bid you farewell then.”

His heart ached already at leaving her, knowing, even with their vague plan of writing to one another partially under the guise of music tutoring, it would be months before he could see her again. “What will you tell your parents... about me?” He dreaded to think what Falmagil and Eäranna would say once they found out just who they'd unwittingly entertained in their home. Just picturing it made him want to cringe.

But Ëarlossë merely shrugged. “Nothing except that you are writing to me, to instruct me in music and singing, as you kindly offered to do so upon discovering my desire to learn, and that you will visit to reinforce my lessons. Beyond that, my friendships are my business.” Her eyes shadowed a little. “That said, if rumor of your visit here reaches them, and I am asked outright, I will not lie.”

“Nor would I want you to.” Makalaurë assured her. He glanced at the sky regretfully, cursing time for passing so quickly, then turned to go- only then recalling that he still held her hands in his. It felt so natural, so _right_ , that he simply hadn't noticed. Acting as if that had been completely deliberate, he released one of her hands, bringing the other to his lips in the formal gesture of farewelling a maiden. “I will write to you as soon as I'm home, with a first lesson. I promise.” Giving her hand one last squeeze before dropping it, he retrieved his boots, pulled them back on, and walked backwards away from her, keeping her in sight for as long as he could, smiling as he saw her clasping the hand he had kissed to her breast. That last sight of her, standing on the beach, starlight gleaming in her bright hair, the Sea behind her like a backdrop to a painting, made his heart skip a beat- she was so stunning...

Too soon, she was out of sight, and Makalaurë wrenched his mind back to Olwë, his cousins, and the feast he had to attend shortly.

The feast in itself wasn't too bad- he talked happily enough with his cousins and the Telerin royals, eagerly recounting his visit to the music school, and, of course, praising the beauty of Olwë's city and his hopes to visit again, to which Olwë extended a permanent invitation, saying that Makalaurë would always be welcomed in Alqualondë. (Makalaurë did, however, get the distinct feeling that this only applied to him, not to his father or brothers. It hardly mattered- Atar would not come here willingly anyway and most of his brothers would follow that example.) Memories of Ëarlossë, and their secret, he kept to himself. As kind and friendly as his cousins, and Olwë and Lothwen, were, he doubted even they would understand his friendship with a commoner, no matter how beautiful and fascinating he found her.

After the feast, he was urged to harp for the gathered Elves, for a time, and then received encore after encore, and so was weary when he finally retired. His dreams were at first blissful, if filled with yearning: he saw himself with Ëarlossë once again, on the beach, but now his Amil was there, as were Maitimo, Ambarussa and Ambarto, along with Falmagil and Eäranna. All of them wore festive robes, while he was clad in his House colors. Ëarlossë wore a stunning cream-and-white satin and lace gown, and Olwë presided over their marriage. Rings were exchanged, and Makalaurë felt tears of joy on his face even as he slept.

Then the dream darkened: The Light of the Trees, usually _just_ visible through the Calacirya, flickered and went out. Atar and the rest of Makalaurë's brothers appeared, clad in armor and bearing vicious-looking swords, and a shadow fell over them, reaching out and engulfing Makalaurë. Ëarlossë and the others were gone, and blood stained the sand and ran into the Sea, defiling it. With horror, he realized that he himself was now clad in armor, like to that worn by the rest of his family, and blood was splattered all over him. Atar's triumphant laugh echoed, as he burst into the flames that he had been named for, but when Makalaurë turned to stare at him, he was no longer there. Nor was anyone else. Makalaurë was alone, his hands bloodstained. There was no sound but that of the Sea. No family... no company... no hope.

He woke with a yell, heart pounding, his whole body trembling. What _was_ that? It was said that, sometimes, dreams could be prophetic. Valar forbid that be true of this one, for what it implied... he shuddered, resolving to believe that it meant no more than him fearing Atar and his brothers somehow ruining things between him and Ëarlossë, and becoming more determined to keep her a secret, for now at least.

He had just managed to calm himself enough to stop shaking, when Findaráto slipped into his room to see if he was awake- he and Artanis wished to leave early, as they were eager to return to Tirion as fast as possible, keen to reunite with their parents. He did not quell their good mood with his dark dream, instead maintaining a cheerful appearance as they bid farewell to Olwë and Lothwen before departing.

“With luck, we should be back in Tirion in three days!” Findaráto called across to them, raising his voice to be heard over the pounding of their horses' hooves.

Luck, indeed. _Bad_ luck perhaps, Makalaurë mused grimly. He was looking forward to seeing Amil, of course, and the twins, who would have missed him. He was excited to give them their gifts as well, and he looked forward to telling Maitimo the tale of his visit to Alqualondë, if his elder brother was, for once, at home, but the thought of facing the rest of his brothers... and Atar... He shivered, and hoped his cousins would simply assume it was because of the morning chill.

They made better time than Findaráto had anticipated, mainly because Artanis had announced that they could stop and camp if they wished, but _she_ intended to ride on through the nights of their journey: the horses had just had a week of pure rest, after all, so it would not harm them. Findaráto, after a questioning glance at Makalaurë, who had simply nodded, had acquiesced to his sister's request. Thus, the journey that should have taken three days was accomplished in less than two, and all too soon for Makalaurë's liking, they were entering Tirion's gates, and there he and his cousins parted ways, as they returned to their residence, on a street close to the palace, while he dismounted, retrieving the packages containing the gifts for his brothers from the saddlebags, and giving thanks to his cousins for inviting him along on their excursion, and for loaning him a horse, he went on alone on foot to his family's home, in a quieter part of the city.

Upon entering his atar's estate, Makalaurë walked slowly up the path that led to his home, his heart growing heavier with each step, with part of him wishing he could have stayed in Alqualondë. He had missed his amil, and Ambarussa and Ambarto, of course, but still, he dreaded going back indoors, simply because he knew Atar would be furious that he had left in the first place, and been gone so long. Especially since he had done so in the company of two of Arafinwë's children.

It seemed that his approach had been seen, however, for the door flew open. _So much for delaying Atar's anger_. He grimaced, however, it was not Fëanáro who burst from the house, but Ambarussa and Ambarto, who hurled themselves at Makalaurë, shrieking with delight, clinging to him as if they'd never let him go again. He quickly re-arranged his expression into a happy one, not wanting them to pick up on his worry about facing Atar.

“Cano! Where have you been?”

“We missed you!”

“Amil said you went to see Alqualondë. Why didn't you take us with you? We wanted to come too!”

Suddenly feeling a surge of love for his baby brothers, he hugged them close. At least they were pleased to see him, without any reservations. “I'm sorry, little ones. My trip was unplanned, and it would be a very long journey for the two of you. Perhaps I'll take you when you're older.”

“Atar said you have no business going there, cos Alqualondë's for the Teleri, and your place is in Tirion. He said you can't go again.” Ambarto looked worried as he related this.

An icy chill ran down Makalaurë's spine at the thought of facing his father after all but disappearing without a word, even as a hot defiance that he had rarely felt before tore through his veins. _Forbidden from returning to Alqualondë? We will see about that, Atar._ Though, in truth, as brave as he felt, thinking that now, he doubted his will would stand up to his father's. He'd never managed it before.

Fëanáro, of course, wasn't to know that Olwë had invited him back to Alqualondë whenever he wished, and obviously there was no way that Atar could know about Ëarlossë. Thinking of her made Makalaurë's face redden, and he quickly sought to change the subject. “I don't want you two to worry about that, Atar, Amil and I will sort it out.” Though how that would happen, when Atar in a rage was unstoppable, he had no idea. “I'm surprised you're both not pestering me about what I have brought back for you yet...”

Both twins perked up. “You brought us presents? What are they?”

“Can we have them now?”

Makalaurë chuckled. “Soon, little ones. I'd best go and greet Amme first. Is she in her workshop?” At this time of day, she usually was.

“No, she's in the kitchens, trying to get Tyelko to take his new dog to the stables.”

“Another new dog?” Makalaurë was stunned. As if Tyelkormo's dozen hounds weren't already enough, now he had gained another one?

“Uh-huh.” Ambarussa grabbed his hand. “He said it was a gift from Lord Oromë- he invited Tyelko on a hunt while you were away- and Atar said he could keep the puppy, though Amme didn't.” Both twins looked pensive, and Makalaurë winced, able to picture that scene all too clearly, and frowning, worried about what the twins might have seen and heard between their parents. The twins didn't seem _too_ upset, though, so it could not have been all that bad. Not to mention, Tyelkormo being invited to join Lord Oromë on a hunt was not unusual, but to be rewarded with a pup from one of the Vala's own stock? _Why_?

Ambarto was tugging at his other hand now, both of them leading him into the house. “Anyway, Tyelko came back with his new puppy, and it's _huge!_ ”

“Really?” Makalaurë smiled as he let the twins pull him into the kitchen. “As big as the last pups that were born?”

“No! Bigger! It's already nearly as big as us!”

Makalaurë widened his eyes in amazement for their benefit, although he was sure they were exaggerating. However, when they reached the kitchen, they found Tyelkormo kneeling on the floor, mock wrestling with a great grey dog that was, indeed, already the same height as the little twins, although judging by the size of its paws and the chubbiness of its body, it still had much growing to do.

Amil stood nearby, a put-upon look on her face, as she watched the 'game'. Clearly, Tyelkormo would not be parted from his new pet easily, if at all. He was laughing as the dog managed to bowl him over, tongue laving his face, while the wagging of the pup's tail vibrated its entire body.

“Huan, enough!” Laughter intermingled with Tyelkormo's words as he tried- not very hard- to fend the dog- Huan- off. “I already said you can stay in my room.”

“Even though I did not.” Amil muttered, ineffectually.

Tyelkormo shot an annoyed look at her as Huan whined pitifully. “Atar said it was fine, Amil, so he's staying with me.”

Makalaurë, who had not yet been noticed, leaned against the doorframe, keeping hold of the twins, not wanting them to rush too close to Huan- with his size, he could easily knock them flying, after all, and a pup that young would not know the harm he could do.

Amil let out a deep sigh. “Fine, Tyelkormo, but if Huan causes too much damage, he will be moved to the stables where all the other hounds are kept. Keeping him under control is your responsibility. Understood?”

Tyelkormo nodded absently, obviously hardly listening to her. Huan now seemed to catch Makalaurë's scent, for his head turned to face him, and in seconds he had bounded to his feet, broken free of Tyelkormo's hold and trotted over to sniff at this new person. The twins each got a lick, too, which set them giggling. Dropping Ambarto's hand, Makalaurë tentatively petted Huan's head, which already reached his thighs, setting the hound's tail wagging happily once again.

Amil smiled, coming over to embrace Makalaurë, greeting him warmly, although Huan's being underfoot made the hug awkward. Tyelkormo, however, looked at his older brother sullenly, apparently jealous that Huan was paying him any attention at all.

“I'll go and inform Atar that you've finally returned, Makalaurë.” He stated smugly. “I'm sure you have a great deal to say to one another. Come along, Huan.” He'd darted off towards the forge before Makalaurë could stop him, Huan trotting after him obediently.

Makalaurë's heart sank, knowing that an argument was pending. He just hoped that Atar would not begin his condemnation of him in front of Ambarussa and Ambarto. They did not need to see any more of Fëanáro's rages. He caught Amil's eye, nodding towards the twins. She looked worried, but took the hint.

“Come along, little ones, let's leave Makalaurë some privacy to talk with Atar. You can come help me find some old blankets for Huan to sleep on, since he's staying in Tyelkormo's room.”

She shepherded them away, while shooting Makalaurë concerned glances, but he did his best to look brave, as he preferred her to be out of the way when Atar started shouting, for her sake. Atar was angry with him, not Amil, and there was no reason for her to be caught in the line of fire. At least Tyelkormo wasn't here to witness this, too busy with Huan, and Carnistir and Atarinke were nowhere to be found either. Dealing with Atar would be easier without them egging him on, sneering and poking fun at Makalaurë.

Knowing that, however, did not prevent his blood running cold when he heard Atar's near-silent stalking footsteps, accompanied by a snicker from Tyelkormo, followed by Atar's curt voice dismissing him. Perspiration broke out on Makalaurë's skin as Atar stepped into the kitchen, and it took considerable effort for his hands not to shake as he met Atar's fiery gaze.

His dream from two nights ago came back to him suddenly, and he shuddered, recalling the fierce, mad light that had been in Fëanáro's eyes, before the shadow had descended, and flames had swallowed him up.

Swallowing hard, he forced the memory from his thoughts, and just managed to meet his father's gaze. “Atar.” He had intended to sound brave and confident, but as usual, his famed voice sounded weak as he tried to stand on equal footing with Atar.

Fëanáro folded his arms, his face like thunder that had yet to burst from the heavy, overcast skies. His voice was as sharp and searing as a newly forged blade. “Explain yourself.”

Makalaurë's voice died in his throat, and it was all he could do not to cringe, or bow his head as if he had done something wrong.

“ _At once_.” That tone meant that Atar was in no mood to listen to anything Makalaurë had to say anyway, so he merely shook his head. He would not apologize for anything. For once, he was adamant about that, even as he clenched his fists to keep his hands from shaking. He had done _nothing_ wrong, and would not grovel as if he had.

“I am waiting, Canafinwë.” It was obvious that he would not let this be until he received an answer.

Makalaurë sucked in a deep breath. “Findaráto and Artanis were paying a visit to Alqualondë and invited me to accompany them. Findaráto thought I might like to meet some of the minstrels of the Teleri while there, and I-”

“Went gallivanting off with my half-brother's children without so much as a by-your-leave.”

“Uncle Arafinwë said he would send word-”

“So now you're too busy associating with his children to come and ask my permission yourself?”

 _Permission. As if I were no older than Ambarussa and Ambarto_. “I assumed, Atar, that you would be busy at your forge and would not want to be interrupted for such a small thing.” Indeed, the last time Makalaurë had disturbed Fëanáro at the forge- with a message from Anatar Finwë- he had been all but roared at to get out.

Without warning, Fëanáro seized Makalaurë's upper arm, his always-hot hands digging in hard enough to make him wince, knowing that there would likely be bruises left behind. “You do _not_ speak to me in that tone of voice, is that clear?”

Makalaurë didn't think he had spoken any differently than usual, unless it was to sound more meek, not less, but still he nodded. Agreeing was the best way to calm Atar, no matter what.

Nodding as if satisfied, Atar released him. “Since you showed no regard for my feelings, or your Amil's, before you up and disappeared, you will spend the next month cleaning out my forge once I have finished for the day. You are forbidden from leaving this estate until I say otherwise. And,” Another viper-quick move, and he had wrenched Makalaurë's harp from him, “I will be keeping hold of _this_ until I am convinced you have learned the error of your ways.”

A cry of protest rose in Makalaurë's throat, but he just held it back, not wanting to make things worse. It didn't matter anyway- Atar had already walked away. Makalaurë's arm throbbed where Atar had grabbed him, hot tears pricked at his eyes, and a tight, burning feeling seared his throat. He clenched his teeth, determined _not_ to weep. Still, he wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all- Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke wandered where they would across Valinor, and Maitimo was rarely at home these days. Atar hardly ever saw fit to make them ask for his permission, or to punish _them_ for it. What made him so different, that he couldn't make his father like him, and avoid sending him into these rages that, so far as he knew, were only ever aimed towards him?

Shoulders slumped, all joy from his trip forgotten, he trudged up to his room, already missing his harp, dreading how long Atar would withhold it from him. A whole month of cleaning the forge, and without leaving the estate, listening to his brothers' bickering and mocking him mercilessly, without his harp to give him something to do, somewhere for his mind to escape to...

He wished, now, that he had never returned home. He should have stayed in Alqualondë. Where he felt as if he was actually wanted, and always welcome. He loved Amil and the twins, of course, and they loved him, he knew that, but at times like this, he often thought, if they didn't need him here, to shield the little ones (and his other three brothers, to some extent) from Atar's rages, and his quarrels with Amil, as best he could, he would simply leave and never look back. _If only I could..._


	9. Chapter 9

Makalaurë grimaced as he slowly clambered to his feet, his knees sore, his back and shoulders clenching in protest from spending another afternoon scrubbing the floor of Atar's forge. Soot and ashes stained his clothes, as well as his hands, face and hair, making him feel itchy and uncomfortable. He could only imagine what he must have _looked_ like as he made his way upstairs, wanting to bathe and remove this grime from himself as quickly as possible.

To his relief, he made it to his rooms without encountering any of his brothers, and a bath had already been drawn for him by the servants- ordered by Amil or Maitimo, no doubt. A young ellon was just setting out fresh clothing for him, his head bowed. Upon seeing Makalaurë, he tensed, and edged away in near silence. Remembering the revelation he had had in Ëarlossë's home, about how he had never truly seen the servants and the work they did for him and his family, Makalaurë gave the younger Elf a smile. “Thank you.”

The ellon nearly leaped out of his skin, then stared at Makalaurë, eyes wide, as if he had suddenly gained an additional head. “Your highness?”

“Thank you for the clothes, and the bath,” Makalaurë clarified. “I wanted you to know it is much appreciated.”

The boy's face went red, and he avoided Makalaurë's eyes, almost squirming, as if he thought he was being mocked somehow. “Y-you're welcome.” He finally managed to stammer out, when it became obvious that Makalaurë was waiting for a reply. Seeing how uncomfortable he was, Makalaurë looked away, giving the ellon time to bow deeply, then dart out of the room. He let out a sigh. Were all servants this wary of praise and gratitude, or was that limited to those who worked for his family? He puzzled over it as he bathed, but could draw no conclusions, then, once dressed, he headed downstairs to check on the twins- it was still a good hour before supper, and he had nothing further to do.

He found his youngest brothers in the sitting room, playing some kind of game with the carved coral figures of a seahorse and a dolphin that he had brought for them in Alqualondë. He took a seat, trying not to laugh, as Ambarussa and Ambarto made their sea creatures 'climb' all over the furniture, and had them 'talk' in absurdly deep voices, as they debated the treacherous climbs they were undertaking. Their peals of laughter rather ruined the dramatic effect they were aiming for, but the atmosphere was joyful nonetheless.

A derisive snort came from the far side of the room, and Makalaurë frowned, recognizing the voice, turning to see Tyelkormo sprawled on the ground near the rear doors that led to the gardens, grooming Huan and evidently not caring that he was getting dog hair all over the fine carpet. Tyelkormo's mouth opened, his eyes on the twins. Makalaurë foresaw a snide remark, and interrupted before Tyelkormo could speak and upset the twins.

“Must you groom Huan in here, Tyelko? It makes such a mess.” _Amil will not like it_ , he nearly added, but held his tongue: Tyelkormo would only scoff at the thought of Amil's disapproval, as he so often did these days, and Ambarussa and Ambarto did not need to hear that.

Tyelkormo's only response to his older brother's words was a sneer, before he looked to the twins once again. “What are those things meant to be, anyway? A fish and some... sea lizard?” Despite the typical scorn in his words, Makalaurë could see genuine curiosity in his eyes. And why not? Tyelko loved animals, and the sight of ones he had not seen, even carved images of them, _would_ appeal to him.

“Cano says my one is called a seahorse,” Ambarto piped up.

“And mine is a delphin.” Ambarussa added.

Makalaurë chuckled. “ _Dolphin_ , little one.”

“That's what I said!” Ambarussa pouted. Ambarto echoed the put-upon expression, showing solidarity with his twin, before they both decided to return to their game, deeming their older brothers too boring to converse with, no doubt.

Tyelkormo glanced towards Makalaurë. “Are they.... real animals, from the Sea, or just creatures dreamed up by the Teleri?” His voice was hesitant, as if he was far from sure he wished to engage Makalaurë in conversation, but the excitement of learning of new animals won out, and his eyes shone with curiosity.

“They're real.” Makalaurë let a half-smile cross his face, although he was still wary. He had not had a truly friendly conversation with Tyelkormo for years now, and wasn't letting his guard down quite yet. “I didn't see any seahorses, though Find- I mean, I was told that they can sometimes be found in rock pools when the tide is high.” Mentioning Findaráto would certainly bring an abrupt end to this tentative conversation, which was why he had stopped himself. “I did see dolphins, though, when I walked on the beach.” He saw that Ambarussa and Ambarto had ceased their playing and were now sitting cross-legged, listening intently, and he modulated his voice accordingly, to make his tale sound more entertaining. Even Huan's head was turned towards him, ears pricked in curiosity. “Despite their appearance, they are not actually fish, but mammals. In size, in terms of length, they are at least as tall as we, if we were to lay besides them. Their blood is hot, as ours is, and they need to surface every so often to breathe.”

Tyelkormo looked as if he would argue. “Sea mammals? How can that be? If they breathe air, they would need a hole in their skulls, and surely that means they would drown while submerged?”

Rather enjoying the fact that for once, he knew more of an animal's nature than Tyelkormo, Makalaurë repeated what he had learned from Findaráto. “The blowhole that they breathe through is on the back of their head, surrounded by strong muscles that keep it closed while they are underwater. When they exhale, a spray rises, clearing any water from near the blowhole, before they inhale. It makes a faint whooshing sound, so you're more likely to hear a dolphin before you see it.” He smiled. “And speaking of hearing them, you should hear the sounds they make!”

Ambarussa and Ambarto were wide eyed with amazement. “They make noise?”

“Yes. They can click, squeak, grunt, and even whistle. They're very vocal. It sounds as if they're laughing all the time. And when I saw them... it was as if they played a game, jumping from the Sea, diving in again, twisting and curling in the air, dancing almost... I would almost swear they were performing for an audience and enjoying it.”

The twins almost squealed in delight, Ambarussa now holding up his toy dolphin and attempting to whistle. “My dolphin is talking like his kin! See?”

Makalaurë laughed. “Indeed, I would almost mistake his cries for the real thing.”

“Will you take us to Alqualondë for our Begetting Day, Cano?” Ambarto pleaded. “We want to see real dolphins.”

“And swim with them, and join in their dancing!” Ambarussa added, turning pleading eyes to his older brother. “Please?”

Makalaurë couldn't bring himself to say that Atar would not allow it- the twins were so excited. “We'll see. It will be up to Atar and Amme, not me.”

“Amme will say yes.” Ambarto stated firmly, as if it were fact. Ambarussa nodded.

Tyelkormo's eyes were thoughtful. Makalaurë smiled at him directly. “Perhaps their tongue is one you'd care to learn?” He knew that Tyelko was endeavoring to learn the tongues of as many birds and beasts as he could. Makalaurë personally would love to know what manner of thoughts such delightful creatures as dolphins had.

But then Tyelkormo's expression turned calculating. “I wonder what manner of spear could be fashioned to hunt such beasts...” His tone was musing, speculative, far quieter than usual. “Such a large creature, stuffed and mounted, would be a fine prize...”

Makalaurë gaped at him in horror, even as he got to his feet and did his best to cover the twins' ears, not wanting them to hear this kind of talk. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Tyelkormo scoffed. “Don't be such an _elleth_ , Makalaurë. If something lives, then something or someone hunts it. That is the way of things. I doubt very much that none of the Teleri have never conceived of this idea, or carried it out.” Shaking his head, and sneering at Makalaurë once again, he strode from the room, although, surprisingly, Huan did not follow, but remained laying where he was, giving his master an almost reproachful look.

Trying to quash the unease he now felt at the mental image of Tyelkormo hurling spears at the innocent dolphins as they played, heedless of danger, Makalaurë took a deep breath, telling himself that those were not tears stinging his eyes. What manner of spirit dwelled within Tyelkormo, that one of his first thoughts upon learning of such a magnificent creature as a dolphin was its suitability as a hunting trophy? Could he not simply enjoy one of the marvels of the world, without seeing a prize in it?

“Cano?” Ambarussa squirmed out from under his hands, followed by Ambarto. “Do you have a song for dolphins?”

“Will you sing for us?”

The burning in Makalaurë's eyes increased, and he blinked rapidly, determined not to cry in front of his baby brothers, even as longing for his harp seized him. “Soon, little ones. Atar still has my harp at present, as punishment for my... disobedience.” How bitter those words were in his mouth- punishment for something that was no crime. He wondered if he should in fact be reinforcing Atar's unjust decisions to the little ones, but if he began showing discontent, and they began rebelling against Atar.... There was no telling what Fëanáro might do, so it was best to let the children continue believing that Atar was right, and not cause them any upset. Not while they were still so young. “I will play you a song for the dolphins as soon as I have it back.” He stood, taking the twins' hands. “Now, shall we go and find a snack before supper? I won't tell Amme.” He winked at them, and they both burst into giggles, sufficiently distracted from the potentially upsetting conversation. Both stooped to grab their discarded toys, and towed Makalaurë 'quietly' towards the kitchens, to beg for a sweet of some kind from the cooks.

Huan remained in the sitting room, all but forgotten, his head tilted to one side, as if deep in thought.

* * *

Supper had been as noisy as usual, with the twins chattering to themselves, Tyelkormo, Atarinke and Carnistir arguing hotly over... something, Makalaurë didn't know what, as he had tuned them out, while Amil spoke with Maitimo over the cacophony, whereas Atar seemed deep in thought, a frown on his brow, scarcely seeming aware of what he was eating. Makalaurë was glad to retreat to his room while Amil put the twins to bed and Maitimo slipped out yet again, no doubt off on another visit- or escape- to Findekáno's home.

When he got to his room, he froze, stunned. His harp lay on his bed, in plain view. But Atar had not said anything to him of returning it... and there was no chance that Fëanáro would have returned it without making a spectacle of it, wishing to be sure that Makalaurë was truly contrite for the 'wrong' he had committed. It was possible that Amil had talked him into it, but again, she would have told him, surely?

Only then did Makalaurë notice the shed grey hairs littering his carpet and bedspread, and the faint teeth-marks now etched into his harp. A bemused grin spread over his face. Had _Huan_ fetched the harp back for him? The pup was certainly large enough to have handled the instrument, but... that would imply he had heard, and understood, Makalaurë's conversation with the twins earlier. The thought made him shiver. Huan was sired and whelped from Oromë's own hunting dogs- who knew what exactly a dog bred to serve a Vala might be capable of? It was... disquieting, to think that Huan could comprehend speech, but... well, he had his beloved harp back. He was not going to waste too much time on debating the hows and whys of it. He picked it up, ensuring that Huan's teeth had done no harm. It did not appear that they had, so, cautiously, quietly, he played a few chords, relishing having his old 'friend', for so he thought of his harp at times, in his hands once more. He continued playing, but far quieter than usual- typically, once one of Atar's punishments ended, through whatever means, he considered the matter over. He might even, given how distracted he could be by his work, believe that he himself had agreed to return the harp. Makalaurë had no desire to give him another reason to take the instrument back!

As he played, he let his mind drift to Ëarlossë, picturing her, as he began to consider what might be an appropriate first lesson to write to her. He should probably also write to the students of music in Alqualondë, as well. He'd given his word, after all. Reluctantly setting the harp down (and making a mental note to give Huan some form of treat the next time he saw the hound), he reached for ink, quill and parchment, and spent the next few hours engrossed in writing and thoughts of music, heedless of the passing of time.


	10. Chapter 10

Fëanáro's distracted mood lasted for longer than expected, over a day. Towards the end of the second, Makalaurë could not help but notice that his atar's sullen glances were often aimed towards him. To be fair, this was hardly new, but for once, Atar did not seem inclined to snap out at Makalaurë what he had done wrong, which _was_ unusual. No mention was made of the harp, so that could not be it, nor had Makalaurë gone against Atar's orders of staying on the family estate, and (so far as he knew) he had not done any damage while cleaning the forge each day, so what the problem was utterly eluded him.

The mystery was solved just after breakfast the following day, when they all, save the twins, had finished eating, and were all still seated at the dining table. Atar stood and cleared his throat, as if making an announcement. As usual when he did this, all the members of his family turned to face him.

“I received a fascinating letter a few days ago.” Atar's voice was pitched low- audible enough for them all to hear, but with an undertone that carried a threat. The voice he used when he felt someone had wronged him and he intended to be avenged. “It was addressed to me, but was couriered here from Atar's palace.” Here he paused, meeting the gaze of everyone at the table, those dark eyes boring into Makalaurë's. “Evidently the letter's writer- some so-called Master of Music from Alqualondë- did not know that my family dwells outside the Noldoran's palace.”

Makalaurë's heart began to pound. _The letter from the Guildmaster, about the music conservatory_. There was nothing else it could be. He felt his palms begin to sweat. He had not forgotten about the ellon's promise to write to his parents, exactly, but... well he had hoped, perhaps naively, that Amil would see the letter before Atar did, and then he could have spoken to her, see if there was any way to approach Atar in this and at least try and get a positive answer from him. Now, there was no hope of that.

Atarinke snorted. “Why would you expect a Teler to have any intelligence, Atar?”

Fëanáro cast his favorite son an approving look, before returning his glower to Makalaurë, who cast a fleeting, desperate glance at Amil.

Nerdanel reached over the table, her hand brushing her husband's. “Fëanáro, beloved, perhaps we could discuss this privately-”

He ignored her entirely, his steely gaze still on Makalaurë. “Imagine my surprise when the letter contained gushing praise for my second son's musical talent, coupled with the audacity to suggest that perhaps I, his own atar, might be ignorant of its extent. And then, the arrogant scribe dared, _dared_ to request that my son, a High Prince of the Noldor, be sent away to Alqualondë indefinitely, to squander his time and energy on some rustic, backward school of music, instead of remaining in his true place in Tirion!” His tone was now acidic, sharp enough to cut. Those dark eyes narrowed at Makalaurë. “Naturally, I threw this offending letter straight into the fire. The reply I sent makes it clear, in no uncertain terms, that the education and future of my sons is _my_ decision, and I will not let anyone, least of all a Teleri fool with delusions of grandeur, dictate to me about how such things are to be conducted.”

Makalaurë had known this would likely be Atar's response to the Guildmaster's request, but his heart still sank. Disappointment must have shown in his expression, for Nerdanel reached out towards him, her eyes kind. “Laurë-”

“Enough, Nerdanel.” Atar's voice was hard and cold as ice now. “Stand up, Canafinwë.” His words brooked no dissent, and so Makalaurë obeyed, trying to stand tall and ignore the muffled laughter from Tyelkormo and Atarinke. Carnistir was just staring at him coldly, as if he were some form of half-wit, utterly beneath him. Maitimo, at home for once- was shooting Makalaurë sympathetic looks, while encouraging the twins to eat, and thus distracting them from the tense scene.

Fëanáro left his seat, striding over and standing directly before Makalaurë, looming over him. “Have I not provided you with everything you need? Is your life here, the life of a High Prince, with your every desire catered to, not one that our people envy? Have you ever grown up wanting for _anything_?”

“No.” Makalaurë mumbled, staring at his own feet. He would have liked to be honest, and to have said that Atar knew _nothing_ of what he truly wanted or desired, since it had been years since he cared to actually ask. But lashing out in that fashion would only make things worse.

“Then would you care to tell me why you are leading others to believe you wish to leave your home, and go to dwell among strangers who are not even of our clan and will not be able to provide for you as I do?”

“I... I did not do such a thing, Atar.” Makalaurë forced himself to look at his father. “I was simply asked to perform while in Alqualondë, and this guildmaster must have heard me, and taken it upon himself to write to you.”

“So you knew nothing of it until I spoke of it just now?” Atar held his eyes, his gaze piercing, until Makalaurë blinked, his face burning.

“Well?”

“I.... may have known.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maitimo wince, while Amil tensed, as if ready to leap to her feet. The twins were looking concerned now, picking up on the atmosphere, while the other three were watching this exchange excitedly, as if it were a sporting event they had placed wagers on.

“And you did not think to tell this imbecile that you had no desire to leave your home in Tirion and reside in Alqualondë?”

“I... did not wish to cause any upset, Atar.”

“Mm-hmm. So you did not wish to cause upset to some stranger in Alqualondë, who is no kin to you, but you cared nothing for the pain you would cause me in leading me to believe you wish to abandon me, your own father, and your mother and brothers? That you wish to utterly leave our home and family to live elsewhere?” Fëanáro's voice rose, now full of anger, but there was an odd, calculating look in his eyes.

“Cano's going away?” Ambarussa's little voice shook, his lip wobbling, as he looked between Makalaurë and Fëanáro.

Two fat tears rolled down Ambarto's face. “B-but why? Have we been bad, to make him leave?”

“We're sorry, Cano! We'll be good! P-please don't go away.” Ambarussa sniffled.

“You're our favorite brother ever!” Ambarto added piteously, his words ending with a sob.

Both the little ones' faces were turned toward Makalaurë now, their eyes wide and desperate, not comprehending. His heart lurched, constricting with guilt at upsetting them so.

“There! Are you satisfied now, Makalaurë?!” Atarinke surged to his feet. “Now you've made our baby brothers cry!”

As if he cared at all, Makalaurë scoffed inwardly. Atarinke never had anything to do with the twins unless he absolutely had to!

“Atarinke, that is _enough_.” Amil's voice was quiet, but fierce. As usual, her fifth son took little notice of her. Maitimo sent a glare in Atarinke's direction, and he scowled, but settled back into his chair.

Both twins hurled themselves from their seats, lunging at Makalaurë and clinging to his legs like limpets.

“We won't let you go anywhere!” Ambarussa declared passionately.

“We love you! Please don't go.” Ambarto's little form was shaking with the effort of holding in his tears, and, heedless of the fact that Atar had returned to his chair, Makalaurë dropped to his knees, pulling both of his baby brothers into his arms, stroking their hair to calm them.

“Ssh, ssh, it's alright. I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.”

“P-promise?” Ambarto looked up at him, desperate hope in his teary eyes, and Makalaurë nodded.

“I promise. Tirion is my home, and I won't be going to live anywhere else unless my family comes with me. I won't leave you. Not ever.”

Both twins snuggled into his arms, little faces pressed to his tunic, still clinging to him tightly, as if they feared he would vanish. Makalaurë held them close. He had given his word, and now, he would feel bound to keep it, no matter what. He had not expected to be allowed to attend the music conservatory anyway, but to be bound by his own words not to attend... It hurt. Images of Alqualondë, gleaming under starlight, of the Sea caressing the pristine beach, the relaxed, cheerful air of Olwë and Lothwen, the excitement of the music students when they'd peppered him with questions and advice, Ëarlossë's face, her smile... All of those things made his heart ache with yearning, but the weight of his baby brothers in his arms felt like an anchor, keeping him precisely where he was. He could not leave and start a new life while his brothers needed him.

Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke had lost interest in the scene, and were now discussing something else, their heads huddled together. Maitimo was giving Makalaurë sympathetic looks, while Amil... She seemed to be glaring fiercely at Atar, but he was not even looking at her. He had settled back into his seat, his face blank, but his eyes burning with what could almost have been triumph, as if he'd won some battle. His lips curved, just the tiniest fraction, as he noticed Makalaurë looking at him over the twins' heads.

 _He is pleased, I suppose, that he has managed to make me promise not to move to Alqualondë, even though it wasn't truly his doing_. Makalaurë tried to ignore the bitter voice in his mind, focusing on his brothers- after all, it seemed they would be his focal point of existence until they were grown! He still fully intended to pay occasional visits to Alqualondë- he had given his word on that before departing- but moving there was out of the question now, no matter how tempting it was. His home was in Tirion, and he could not leave it behind.

Atar would never let things be any different, no matter what Makalaurë- or any other of his sons- might want.


	11. Chapter 11

Makalaurë lounged on his bed, enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet, finishing writing a long letter to Ëarlossë, to be added to the pile of other notes he had written to some of the music students he'd met in Alqualondë. As yet, he had no true idea of how he would send these letters without Atar knowing, but he was determined to find a way. The twins were busy with their tutor, Amil had disappeared into her workshop to work on her latest commission, Tyelkormo was outside somewhere 'training', or more likely playing with Huan, as they had been missing for several hours, and Atar had taken the other two boys to his forge with him that day.

Thus Makalaurë had been left to his own devices today, so far anyway. He was just sealing his first letter for Ëarlossë, pondering if he could perhaps call on Arafinwë's home to visit Findaráto, and have his uncle dispatch the pile of letters? Then Atar would (hopefully) not find out. Uncle Arafinwë, being the husband of Olwë's daughter, Aunt Eärwen, would not look suspicious in dispatching letters to Alqualondë, after all... He resolved to do just that tomorrow, first thing, intending to leave early once more, before Atar could forbid him from going. Apart from anything else, he _was_ looking forward to spending time with his slightly younger cousin again- he truly had enjoyed Findaráto's company.

Without warning, Maitimo, who he had thought was at Findekáno's home again, burst into his room without knocking, his face pale, a worried look on his face. Makalaurë was on his feet in seconds, ink jar overturned on the bedspread, the letter cast aside. “What is it, what's happened?” Seeing his elder brother so obviously worried, fearful thoughts sprang to his mind- Amil, the twins... had something happened?

Maitimo swallowed heavily before managing to speak. “It's not... our family is fine, I just... Some news from Vanyamar reached Ñolofinwë while I was at his home. Kano and I overheard, and...” He shook his head, red tresses flying. “I'm probably over-reacting, but I want to talk this through with you before Atar and Amil hear of it from Anatar Finwë.”

“Talk _what_ through?” Makalaurë placed his hands on Maitimo's shoulders, attempting to calm him. Inwardly, he was disquieted. What news from Vanyamar could possibly have rattled level-headed Maitimo this badly?

Maitimo inhaled shakily before replying. “The news is that Melkor has been released from his cell in Mandos. That was yesterday sometime. He has been brought to the Máhanaxar today, to appeal before the Valar for his freedom.”

Makalaurë's heart stood still. “You are jesting.” He finally managed. This could not be true!

“I wish I was, brother.”

They both stood in silence for a long minute, though Makalaurë suspected their thoughts were similar. Melkor, the dark Vala, who had terrorized and slaughtered the Elves at Cuiviénen, when they first Awoke, who had been held in the fastness of Mandos' halls since before the Three Clans had come to Valinor, was being allowed to appeal his sentence, and might even be granted freedom?! “I-I suppose the Valar know what they are doing...” He finally managed, weakly. Truly, he could not imagine why they would even consider allowing Melkor, the monster behind so many terrifying stories, to walk free once more. _But, Melkor is brother to Lord Manwë, and he would never wish harm on any. Perhaps Melkor truly has repented and changed his ways during his imprisonment?_ After all, Makalaurë reflected, how often did _his_ brothers do things that were cruel or foolish, then correct their behaviour once they realized the harm they did? Alright, fine, not often in the cases of his three middle brothers, but Maitimo, and the twins, and even Makalaurë himself, had made mistakes and learned from them in the past. Why should Melkor be any different, save for that he was a Vala, and not an Elda?

Still, the thought of Melkor regaining his freedom, and possibly _encountering_ him someday, sent chills down Makalaurë's spine. He took a deep breath. “It is not definite yet. He is only requesting freedom, if the news is even true. It may not be granted.” He was speaking to reassure himself as much as his older brother. For himself, he could only hope it would not be. Finally, he met Maitimo's eyes. “How do you think Atar will react once he hears of this?”

Maitimo shrugged. “Who knows how Atar will react to anything? He has never had much love for the Valar, even though he should. When he hears this...” He shook his head. “Most likely, he will take it as some form of proof that he was right not to put his faith in them as others do. Or he will demand to know why Anatar, and the other kings of the Eldar, and their heirs, were not given a say in this matter, or invited to the trial.”

Makalaurë frowned. “I think, if we can, we should at least try and keep Ambarussa and Ambarto away if it seems likely Atar will bring up the subject. They do not need to hear Atar's blasph- alternate views on the Valar's guardianship of Valinor, and of Arda.”

Maitimo grimaced. “You cannot shelter them from Atar forever, Makalaurë. They are our brothers, not your children. And we survived growing up with Atar's odd moods, did we not?”

Makalaurë scowled. “Perhaps, but they are little more than babes. And if you were actually _here_ more often, instead of always passing your time with Findekáno, you would realize how volatile Atar can be these days-”

“What is going on?” Amil's voice floated up the stairs, followed by the sound of her footsteps. “Your voices carry almost into the street!” Stepping into Makalaurë's room, she folded her arms, looking between her eldest sons with an eyebrow raised, waiting for a reply.

Makalaurë hadn't realized they had made so much noise, and immediately apologized. “I'm sorry, Amil. Maitimo and I were just... discussing some news he learned from Findekáno.”

The brow arched further. “Which was?”

Makalaurë looked at Maitimo. He had borne the news into this house, and he had been the one to hear it first hand. He should be the one to pass it on to their mother. He explained quickly, and Nerdanel's face paled. She visibly took a deep breath, pulling a smile onto her face that was obviously forced. “We can but hope that his plea is not granted.” She shuddered. “To think of one such as he walking free among our people...”

There was a loud bang as the back door was flung open and footsteps thundered into the house, followed by loud panting and whining. Tyelkormo and Huan must have tired of being outdoors.

“Atar? Amil? Brothers? Is anyone here?” Tyelkormo's voice boomed up the stairs, loud enough to make Makalaurë wince. _And Amil thought Maitimo and I were too loud?!_

“Up here.” Maitimo called back. “But cease making such noise!”

“Sorry,” Tyelkormo replied insincerely, as he and Huan ran upstairs, pausing on the landing just outside Makalaurë's room. “But I thought you'd want to hear what Huan and I found out as soon as possible.”

“And what fascinating thing have you found out, exactly, that makes you come in here, causing such a racket?” Nerdanel stepped into view, with Makalaurë just behind her, as she stared pointedly at her third eldest son.

Tyelkormo looked away, face turning sullen at her tone, clearly not intending to reply- until Huan let out a yelp and head-butted his master in the legs, almost toppling him to the floor.

“Alright, Huan!” Pushing silver-blond hair from his face, Tyelkormo glared at the hound, who licked his hand as if apologizing, before looking up at Maitimo and addressing him, as if his eldest brother was the only one there.

“Huan and I decided to go for a run-”

Another yelp from Huan, and now his eyes looked almost reproachful. Tyelkormo let out a deep sigh. _”Fine_. I decided we should go for a run. I took my horse, so Huan didn't have to slow down for me, and... we didn't really keep track of where we went.” Another shrug.

Considering the way Tyelkormo was dragging out his explanation, it was obvious to Makalaurë that he was unsure about revealing the whole story in front of Amil. _I wonder what he's gone and done now?_ And, glancing at Huan, he wondered, not for the first time, just how sentient the hound was: it did seem as if he understood what was being said and didn't want Tyelko to tell falsehoods...

“Anyway, we were just running blindly, racing, and we ended up near Ezellohar. My horse needed to rest, so I dismounted for a while, and then I heard voices.”

Ezellohar was the great Mound on which the Two Trees, Laurelin and Teleperion grew. It was also many leagues from Tirion. Makalaurë could not check his exclamation. “Ezellohar?! It's no wonder your horse needed rest. Are you trying to work the beast to death?”

Tyelkormo sneered at him without replying. Amil broke the moment by pointedly clearing her throat. “You were near the Ezellohar when you heard voices, presumably coming from the Máhanaxar.” It was a logical assumption, as the Ring of Doom where the Valar held court lay close to the Mound of the Trees. “And, since anything going on there was obviously no concern of yours, you turned around and left as quietly as you could?” Nerdanel's tone of voice now- disappointed and sarcastic- made it clear that she knew full well Tyelkormo had done no such thing.

Tyelkormo's ears reddened. “Well, no. Huan wished to-”

Now the hound let out a low rumble from deep in his chest, that could almost have been a growl.

“Alright!” Tyelkormo's voice rose to a shout. “ _I_ wanted to find out what was going on, so I crept closer to listen.” His eyes were wide, almost gleaming with excitement. “All the Valar were gathered on their thrones, and _Melkor_ knelt before Manwë, asking for his pardon!”

Nerdanel's face was ashen now, her hand pressed to her mouth. She opened her mouth, but Maitimo spoke first.

“You had no business being there, Turkafinwë! The politics of the Valar, and any decisions they make, are no concern of ours! What do you think would happen if you had been discovered there?”

Personally, Makalaurë had no doubt that the Valar were aware of Tyelkormo's presence- as if an Elda as young as Tyelko would have been able to fool them in any way! But he kept his thoughts to himself.

Tyelkormo only sniffed in disdain at Maitimo's words. “I wasn't discovered, so I hardly see that it matters. Once Melkor's plea was granted, I slipped away to bear the tidings to Atar. Where is he?”

Makalaurë felt the ground lurch under his feet. “Melkor's pardon was _granted_?”

“Yes,” Tyelkormo didn't seem at all disturbed by this, for some reason. “Although, as I left, I heard something about him not being permitted to go anywhere without a guard at first, but I have no idea how long that will last. Where is Atar? I wish to ensure he is told.”

“Ensure I am told what?” Fëanáro's voice came from the foot of the stairs, making all four of the Elves jump, as they had not heard him enter the house, though, considering the volume of Tyelkormo's voice, that was hardly surprising.

Apparently forgetting the presence of the rest of them, Tyelkormo bounded down the stairs and repeated his tale to Atar, although, Makalaurë could not help but notice, he was making his adventure sound far more impressive now that Atar was listening. Huan, interestingly, remained at the top of the stairs, with his ears back and tail down, radiating disapproval.

So many emotions shot through Atar's eyes as he listened to Tyelkormo's story that his reaction to the news about Melkor was impossible to guess. He said nothing to his wife or two older sons, instead slipping an arm around Tyelkormo's shoulders, leading him away and speaking rapidly in a low and urgent tone, too quietly for them to hear.

A worried frown creased Nerdanel's face, and she quickly darted downstairs to follow them. Makalaurë and Maitimo, left alone but for Huan, exchanged looks.

“You do not think Atar will do anything foolish, do you?” Makalaurë ventured at last.

Maitimo stared at him. “Such as what? This decision has been made now, little brother. Atar can do nothing about it. And, as you said, Melkor would not have been granted this parole if the Valar doubted his repentance.”

“I suppose you're right.” Makalaurë replied half-heartedly. Huan let out a whine, and shoved his head beneath Makalaurë's hand, demanding attention. He obliged, scratching the hound's ears, while trying to convince himself that all was well. Yet, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that Melkor's release only heralded trouble for all who dwelled in Valinor. He should have more faith in the judgement of the Valar, he knew that. The Powers of Arda were not fools. But... something about this just didn't feel right.

A shadow fell over his thoughts when he considered what the future might hold now, with Melkor free to walk among them, and that called to mind the disturbing dream he had had, back in Alqualondë, of the Darkness enveloping him, his brothers, and Atar. Why he recalled that now, he had no idea. He was no seer, gifted with insight. That ability, if rumors were to be believed, was something that Artanis possessed, as did Findaráto, although he as yet had seen no evidence of it in either of them, but he had no such gift.

So why had his thoughts linked that dark dream to Melkor so strongly? Perhaps he could mention it in vague terms to Findaráto tomorrow, and see if he could provide any answers...

* * *

**Translations:**

**Turkafinwë: Tyelkormo's father-name.**


	12. Chapter 12

Makalaurë struggled to move quietly as he climbed through the window of the sitting room. He had decided to do as Artanis had and leave his home through a window rather than a door to avoid detection, and this room's windows faced the gate of their family estate. What he had not anticipated, however, was that maneuvering himself through such a confined space was more difficult than his young cousin had made it appear, especially with a heap of parchments in one's pocket and a harp across your back.

Eventually, he managed to heave himself through, and dropped to the ground as soundlessly as he could, pausing only for a second to check that the letters he needed to send off today were still secure in his pockets, and that his harp had not been damaged, before heading for the gate at a run. It was still early, but, last time he had slipped out at this hour, Atar had been too close to catching him, and who knew if Tyelkormo might be up already, seeing to Huan's needs? It irked him, of course, to have to move so surreptitiously, as if he were doing something wrong, when he only intended to go and call on his uncle and cousins, and his month of confinement for going to Alqualondë had just ended, but it wasn't worth the scene that would take place if he asked Atar for permission to go out and he refused. However, as Atar would be angry regardless, this time Makalaurë had left a note on the dining table. At least that way, he could not be accused of not thinking of his parents' concerns when he could not be found. Letting himself out of the estate's gardens, he heaved a small sigh of relief as he walked into Tirion. This time, he had decided to sit and wait in a small nearby park until day truly broke, _then_ he would go and call upon Uncle Arafinwë.

Reaching the park, he took a seat beneath an old oak tree, which rustled its leaves lazily in greeting, making Makalaurë smile, before he pulled out the sheaf of letters he carried, ensuring that all he wished to be sent to Alqualondë were there- it would not do to have one left behind. His brow furrowed- how could he explain to Arafinwë that he needed him to dispatch these letters for him, when his own family had plenty of couriers they could use? It would seem odd, so he should come up with a plausible excuse, but what, exactly, he could tell his uncle, eluded him at present. To distract himself, and to pass time, he pulled his harp into his hands and began strumming idly, with no real tune in mind.

He had soon gathered quite an audience of woodland creatures- birds, squirrels, rabbits, and even a fox had emerged from their homes and were perched on the grass, looking for all the world as if they were listening to his music. He smiled at his fanciful thoughts, but continued to play, even as his mind wandered, reflecting on yesterday's events. Thankfully Amil had managed to talk Atar out of... whatever he had been planning to do upon hearing the news of Melkor's release, and he and Tyelkormo had returned indoors: Atar with an unreadable expression, and Tyelkormo plainly sulking, although that was most likely because Amil had informed him that he could not go hunting for a week after his reckless act in spying upon the Valar. Atar had not gainsaid her, which, in their home, meant that Amil would have her way, and Tyelkormo was not happy about it. And, as for the other news, Melkor having regained his freedom... Makalaurë's frown deepened as he wondered how that might affect their lives. Surely, if he truly had repented, it would change very little, and yet... He shook his head, banishing his dark thoughts. Such things were not his concern. Melkor was for the Valar to deal with, and they had clearly deemed him changed enough to be set free. Makalaurë- and all the Eldar- would have to trust in them and accept that, no matter their own misgivings.

Realizing that Laurelin's light was growing steadily brighter, he judged it now late enough in the morning to make his way to Arafinwë's home, ceasing his harping as he got to his feet, brushing himself free of leaves and dirt. As soon as the music stopped, the assembled animals darted back to their various dens and nests, almost as if his music had held their wills and with it gone, their natural instincts took over...

Honestly! Makalaurë chided himself as he left the park, heading for the streets that led to Uncle Arafinwë's home. Why was his imagination running wild today? As if music from a mere Elda could charm wild creatures as if he were a Maia or something... He needed to stop being foolish, or he would likely make an idiot of himself in front of his cousin today- that assuming Findaráto did not already have plans for the day. Makalaurë's heart sank. Why hadn't he thought of that, and sent word ahead of his visit? Granted, Atar would not have been pleased, but now Makalaurë might well call on Findaráto to find his cousin not available today.

Still, he kept walking- he was almost there now, and he might as well see if Findaráto was willing to see him, as he had already come this far.

It didn't prevent his heart from thumping as he knocked at his uncle's front door. He'd never called on Uncle Arafinwë at home before- what if whichever servant answered the door did not even know him on sight? Too late, he wondered if he should have worn something that bore his atar's House emblem, to identify himself.

His spiraling thoughts were brought to a halt when the door was opened by a young elleth in a maid's gown. “May I help you?”

He inclined his head politely. “Might I inquire if Prince Findaráto or Princess Artanis are here?”

The maid eyed him suspiciously. “May I ask for your name, my Lord?”

He should have expected this, he reflected. He was not well known among the public of Tirion, rarely venturing into the city, so of course Arafinwë's servants were wary of him. “Of course. I am-”

“Makalaurë!” Findaráto's voice called cheerily from within the house, accompanied by footsteps racing down a flight of stairs, judging by the sound of it. His cousin came into view behind the maid, who, looking startled, had just opened the door wider to admit Makalaurë. Findaráto was beaming as he excused the maid (while thanking her), and Makalaurë's lips curved into a smile in response, before his cousin engulfed him in an embrace- a far more familiar greeting than he had expected, but he would not complain.

Findaráto stepped back, a mock-stern expression on his face. “It took a month for you to decide to come and visit? I thought our trip to Alqualondë would have been more memorable than that. Unless Artanis' company put you off our family for life- Ouch!” His cry of pain was overlaid with the sound of something clattering to the floor. He grimaced, rubbing the back of his shoulder, glancing behind him in annoyance. “What was that for?!”

Makalaurë blinked, and it took him a moment to see a silver-backed hairbrush lying on the ground behind Findaráto, with Artanis standing some distance down the hall, glaring at him. “That was for you implying that our cousin dislikes me!”

Makalaurë just managed to keep from laughing as it dawned on him that Artanis must have thrown her hairbrush at Findaráto. He shook his head, looking down the hall to address her. “I hope you never meet Tyelkormo in an ill mood, little cousin.” He turned his gaze to Findaráto. “My brother's temper, and your sister's, would be a terrifying combination.”

“Let us hope that dread day never comes!” Findaráto shuddered theatrically, laughing as he scooped up the fallen hairbrush, no doubt to keep it from becoming an airborne weapon once again. He ushered Makalaurë inside without even stopping to ask why he was there- he seemed to have taken it as perfectly normal that he would pay an unexpected visit, and welcomed him. Wrapping an arm round Makalaurë's shoulders, he led him down a hallway, still smiling cheerily, Artanis trailing behind them. “I'm afraid you just missed breakfast, or I would have invited you to join us, but come and greet Atar and Amme, and I will introduce you to Aikanáro and Angaráto.” He lowered his voice to a 'whisper', even though it was obvious that Artanis could still hear him. “I assure you, my brothers have better manners than this wild creature that is supposed to be my sister.”

“Would you like me to slap you next time you insult me, Brother?” Artanis' voice carried clearly into the dining room as the three of them entered, and Makalaurë's nervousness resurfaced as Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen, whom he recognized from his times at Court, and two blond-haired ellyn, who were unfamiliar to him, but who could be none other than Aikanáro and Angaráto, Arafinwë's other sons, turned to stare at them.

Arafinwë, at first, kept his eyes on his daughter. “And why, pray tell, would you wish to strike your brother, Artanis?” A blond brow arched, and Artanis ducked her head, her face reddening.

“I would not: I was merely jesting.” She half mumbled.

Arafinwë's lips twitched in a smile, but he nodded, clearly dropping the subject. His gaze shifted to Findaráto and Makalaurë, and the smile broadened. “I wondered how long it would take before you came to visit us, Makalaurë.”

Makalaurë was wrong-footed by this: firstly, that Arafinwë had recognized him immediately, and second, that he seemed to have taken it for granted that he _would_ pay a visit. Surely one brief journey with two of his cousins did not qualify him as a permanent friend, likely to drop in at any time?

“Findekáno and Maitimo drop in here fairly often,” Angaráto (or Aikanáro, Makalaurë did not know which was which) said, as if he were explaining his atar's words. “We assumed it wouldn't be long before at least one of our other half-cousins followed suit.”

“You don't look much like Maitimo though.” The other of the two added bluntly. “I wouldn't have guessed who you were if I had met you elsewhere.”

Eärwen looked pained, shaking her head. “I apologize for my sons, Makalaurë. I assure you, they do in fact possess manners.” She narrowed her eyes at the two of them. “And we do not use the term 'half-cousin' or half-anything in this house, _as they know full well_." These words were punctuated by a glare at her younger sons. "Family is family, no matter what.”

Aikanáro and Angaráto had the grace to look abashed and mumble apologies, which Makalaurë accepted, before one of them (still he had not discerned who was who) noticed the hairbrush that Findaráto still held, and arched an eyebrow. “Are you attempting a new hairstyle, brother?”

“No, it seems that this particular brush took wing along the hallway for no clear reason, until it collided with my shoulder. One might think it no longer desired to be in the possession of our hot-tempered sister.” Findaráto replied mischievously.

Eärwen scowled reproachfully at her daughter, who had the grace to look abashed, while Aikanáro and Angaráto snickered with laughter.

Arafinwë sighed heavily, shaking his head, before gesturing to Makalaurë and Findaráto to be seated. Makalaurë obeyed, reasoning that there would be plenty of time to ask about sending his letters to Alqualondë later. Arafinwë turned sly eyes to Makalaurë. “I imagine such scenes are normal to you, with so many siblings, but I will be polite and apologize for my children regardless.” His blue eyes were twinkling, and Makalaurë let himself relax- Uncle Arafinwë seemed as friendly as Findaráto. He let a grin cross his face. “Fear not, Uncle. I have seen far more bizarre scenes among my own brothers. A mere hairbrush taking wing means little compared to some of those.”

Aikanáro and Angaráto leaned forward almost in unison, their expressions eager. “Like what?”

“Will you tell us?”

“Don't give them ideas.” Findaráto muttered softly. “Please.”

Makalaurë's grin turned slightly wicked. “Well, there was one memorable instance when a pile of clothing mysteriously fell down a chimney, blocking it. Half the room was blackened with smoke before it was cleared, and 'Master Nobody' claimed to be responsible, since my three younger brothers all claimed to have been elsewhere at the time...” He told that tale, and some others, ones that did not show anything of Atar's temper, or his middle brothers' cruelty, making their behaviour sound more like mischief, and adding some of the pranks he and Maitimo had played in their youth, enjoying spending more time in a relaxed, friendly household, and amazed that his uncle, aunt and cousins were hanging on his every word, and even laughing at his stories!

This was the second time he'd spent with people who were not his immediate family, and they, like Olwë and the people of Alqualondë, seemed to like him well enough.

So why was it that his father and most of his brothers did not?


	13. Chapter 13

When his uncle's family had finished their breakfast, Findaráto invited Makalaurë to take a walk around their gardens with him. Sensing that his cousin wished to talk, Makalaurë followed, despite protests from Aikanáro and Angaráto that they had wanted to go riding, all four of them together. Now, as he and his cousin walked through the garden, parts of which looked as if they had been transplanted from Alqualondë- Aunt Eärwen's influence, no doubt- he wondered if perhaps he should have argued to go riding instead. Findaráto, usually so cheerful, looked pensive, and was uncharacteristically silent.

In the end, Makalaurë was the first to speak. “Does something trouble you, cousin?”

Findaráto actually started, blinking, as if he had all but forgotten that Makalaurë was there. “I apologize, Makalaurë. I am just... concerned about some news we received late yesterday, from Anatar Finwë. Word was sent out from Vanyamar, and it seems that the Valar have-” Here he hesitated, eyeing Makalaurë. “If you do not know, perhaps I should not be the one to inform you...”

“About Melkor's plea for pardon and his release?” Makalaurë sighed. “I know of it.” He decided not to mention just how he had found out- Findaráto and his family were far more respectful of the Valar than Makalaurë's atar and brothers, and he suspected Findaráto would not take kindly to the news of Tyelkormo's spying upon the Powers.

Findaráto considered him carefully. “I suppose it makes sense that Anatar would inform your atar himself.” He glanced away. “Atar and Uncle Arafinwë only learned of the news when Anamil told them. Anatar didn't speak to them himself.”

Makalaurë almost winced. The last thing he had wanted was to reinforce the belief- the _fact_ \- that Anatar Finwë preferred Atar over his two younger sons. But neither did he wish to announce Tyelkormo's misdeeds. “The news reached our family through... another person." His reply was deliberately vague. "As far as I know, Anatar has not yet spoken to Atar about it.”

Findaráto shrugged, evidently wishing to set the matter aside. “Anyway, that's why I was lost in thought. I trust the Valar's judgement, I do, it's just...”

“That Melkor having his freedom feels wrong, deep down?” Makalaurë guessed. At Findaráto's nod, he shook his head. “I feel the same, but... the Valar know more than we, they are far wiser than us. Besides, the decision has been made. There is naught we can do to change it.”

“I know, I know...” Findaráto shook his head. “Let's not dwell upon such grim subjects.” Piercing blue eyes suddenly locked on Makalaurë. “I know I teased you earlier, but why did it take a full month for you to deign to see me again? I feared I had somehow offended you on our trip to Alqualondë, though I could not work out how, and I almost came to your home to apologize. Atar talked me out of it though- he said he was sure you would call when you could...”

Makalaurë felt a surge of gratitude for Uncle Arafinwë's insight. If Findaráto had come calling at his home, while Atar had still been angry about his going to Alqualondë... it didn't bear thinking about. Still, Findaráto clearly wished for an explanation, and, to be fair, he deserved one- a month of utter silence from one he clearly considered a new friend, was rude, if you did not know the reasons behind it. Makalaurë took a deep breath before answering, choosing his words with great care. “I apologize. My absence was not due to anything you did. Atar was... not pleased that I left Tirion without informing him directly, and... I thought it best to placate him by remaining close to home for a while, when I returned.” There. Not a true lie, but he hadn't had to reveal the whole truth either. Hopefully that would be enough to satisfy Findaráto...

“Uncle Fëanáro was so angry with you that you thought it best to avoid us for a _month_? Just because you went to Alqualondë with us? Even though you had our atar send him a note to explain?”

Makalaurë winced at the clear disbelief and shock in those words, and it actually took a moment for him to realize that it hadn't been Findaráto who spoke, but Artanis, who stepped into view from around a corner, red splashes of anger staining her face.

Findaráto whirled on his sister, frowning. “Artanis! Hasn't Amil told you before about eavesdropping?”

“I was here in the garden first,” the elleth retorted sullenly. “Anyway, I was addressing Makalaurë, not you.” Then, turning to him: “Well? Did Uncle really react _that_ badly just because you came on a journey with us?”

“I... he... it's complicated, Artanis.” Makalaurë finally managed. He certainly wasn't going to go into detail about his atar's ill moods and irrationality in front of his adolescent cousin!

“Why?”

“Why is not our concern, Artanis.” Findaráto was glaring at her now. “We would not wish others to pry into our family's inner workings, and so we do not do the same to others.” Despite his words, there was clear curiosity and puzzlement in his eyes, but, to Makalaurë's relief, he held his tongue. “Now, if you return indoors within the next few minutes, I won't inform Atar and Amil that you've been spying on others again. Go on.”

Artanis' expression turned from sour to beseeching in an instant. “But I only wanted-”

“ _Go_.” Findaráto's voice brooked no dissent, and Artanis' shoulders slumped. She stormed off with a huff, plainly displeased, and out of habit, Makalaurë attempted to apologize, used to being the one who smoothed over upsets.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to cause you and your sister to quarrel.”

Findaráto gave him a surprised look. “You did not.” He shook his head. “Artanis needs to learn to cease eavesdropping, she has been told often enough. Her excuse is usually that-” He cut himself off. “Ah, you likely don't wish to hear of my young sister's imaginings.”

Curiosity pricked at Makalaurë. “I don't mind...” He let the words trail off, not wishing to force Findaráto to speak if he truly did not wish to, but eager to hear what he meant nonetheless.

Findaráto rolled his eyes. “She claims to be able to see into the minds of others, and to even glimpse the future. Her excuse for eavesdropping is usually that she wishes to learn if what she believes she has seen is accurate or not.”

Makalaurë glanced in the direction that Artanis had gone, intrigued. He had heard similar rumors concerning his young cousin before, but Findaráto seemed almost to be denying the truth of them. “Some of our people are gifted in such ways, are they not?”

“Yes, but even _if_ Artanis is one with such gifts, it is no excuse for her to continually listen in on conversations she was not invited to be a part of. Besides, I'd rather not have her speak of such things in your presence, which is why I sped her off. Some of the things she says about Uncle Fëanáro...” Findaráto sighed. “You would not wish to hear them, they're absurd. Especially as they have rarely crossed paths.”

Makalaurë could not help the bitter laugh that escaped then. “I doubt there is anything she could say of my atar that I have not heard before.” _Or thought myself._ He added, silently.

Findaráto gave him a troubled look, but thankfully did not press the issue. “Anatar Olwë has already written, wondering if you will be accompanying us to Alqualondë again- Atar and Amil usually take all of us for the summer. You'd be welcome to come along for part of the time if you wished.”

Makalaurë's heart ached with longing at the idea, but... “I think that will be for my atar to decide, after last time. And.. keep in mind I would love to come, but I don't want you to inform Olwë that I will, or to get your own hopes up. I doubt it will happen.”

Now Findaráto just looked confused. “But surely if you truly wished to come along with us, your atar would not deny you?”

 _If only you knew_. “We'll see.” Makalaurë placated him. “But, there is something you could help with, if you would.” He pulled the stack of letters he wished to send from his pocket. “I wish these letters to be sent to friends I made in Alqualondë, but none of the couriers my family used travel that far.” That was true, their couriers only worked within Tirion and the outlying estates, but they _could_ have been dispatched to Alqualondë. Just not without Fëanáro knowing, and that was something Makalaurë wished to avoid. He prayed that Findaráto accepted his flimsy excuse. “Would you be kind enough to ensure these are sent the next time your family sends messages to Alqualondë?” He was certain that they would do so fairly regularly- Aunt Eärwen was Olwë's daughter, after all, so of course they would write.

Findaráto took the bundle of letters. “Of course I will. I'll have them sent out later today, but-”

“Makalaurë!” The shout came from the direction of the house, followed by running footsteps. Findaráto rolled his eyes and muttered something about none of his siblings having manners, as Aikanáro ran into view, looking around for them, exhaling when he spotted them.

“There you are. Atar asked me to come and fetch you.” Aikanáro looked uneasy, almost. “Uncle Fëanáro has come here looking for you, cousin. He says you're needed at home today. Atar is speaking to him now, but he seemed impatient. I said I would fetch you.”

Makalaurë's heart sank into the soles of his boots. Atar had been annoyed enough to come here to drag him home, so soon? _There goes any chance of my being welcomed here again._ Valar only knew what impression Atar was leaving on Uncle Arafinwë right now, or what he might have said. Regardless, he turned without a word to head back to the house, shoulders slumped in defeat. There was nothing to be gained in delaying the inevitable. Hoping his cousins would not follow, he managed to mumble a 'Thank you' to Findaráto, gesturing towards the letters that he still held, hoping Findaráto would understand the thanks were meant for agreeing to send them, as he trudged through the gardens and into Arafinwë's home, already accepting that this would be his only visit here.

 _Please don't let Atar humiliate me too much in front of Uncle Arafinwë_. This confrontation was going to be awkward enough without his uncle realizing how much Atar hated him.

Atar's strident voice echoed from the front of the house as Makalaurë stepped inside, followed by a lower, soothing tone from Uncle Arafinwë. Artanis and Angaráto were lingering in the hallway outside a closed door, whispering to themselves, although they both made themselves scarce upon seeing Makalaurë. He barely noticed, as he braced himself to deal with the scorn and sarcasm he knew he was about to face from Atar, and the sympathy and pity he feared seeing from Uncle Arafinwë.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the closed door, then pushed it open, revealing a luxurious sitting room. Uncle Arafinwë was seated on a soft chair, looking calm as ever, although a slight frown creased his brow. Atar stood before the unlit fireplace, tense as a bowstring, his fists clenched. His face could have been a mask for all the emotion it showed. The searing glare that he leveled at Makalaurë, however, even though it lasted only an instant, spoke volumes.

Makalaurë suppressed a gulp as he closed the door behind him, not wanting anyone but Uncle Arafinwë to hear what was about to happen. (He'd have preferred his uncle to leave too, but this was Arafinwë's home, so he could hardly ask for that.)

He swallowed hard before managing to raise his head. “Atar.” With effort, he managed to meet Fëanáro's gaze. Hopefully Uncle Arafinwë would not pick up on how frightened he was feeling. From experience, Makalaurë knew it was best to just let Atar's temper boil over, and get it over with. He silently willed his uncle to just, please, stay quiet. Trying to intervene would only make things worse.

“Canafinwë.” A long silence followed, as Atar's glare made him squirm. “I thought we had settled this, that you would not simply go gallivanting off without discussing it with your mother and I first?”

Uncle Arafinwë actually laughed, his expression utterly cheerful, although there was a shrewd, steely look in his eyes. “Oh, come now, Brother. You did exactly that on a regular basis when you were Makalaurë's age, if I recall correctly. And I thought you knew that my nephews are always welcome in my home.” His tone was utterly friendly, and although Atar glared at him, there was nothing he could retort with- Arafinwë's words had been perfectly reasonable.

“True enough.” Atar eventually forced out through gritted teeth. “However, as I said, Makalaurë is needed at home today. My two youngest are due for a music lesson, and they desire his presence. He seems to have forgotten that commitment in his haste to visit his half-cousins.”

Makalaurë would have snorted aloud if he'd dared- no such arrangement had been made, and he knew full well that as soon as he was at home, Atar would be furious with him, and he would not get near the twins. It was incredible to hear just what manner of nonsense Atar would come out with in order to get his own way.

Uncle Arafinwë arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? Well, that is something that should not be forgotten. I'm sure Makalaurë will be happy to visit Findaráto again later in the week.”

“Perhaps.” Atar said dismissively, already striding towards Makalaurë and placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. “For now, we must be off.”

Uncle Arafinwë stood. “Of course. It was good to see you both today, Makalaurë, Fëanáro.” He walked ahead of them to the door, then whirled back around, his face lighting up as if he had just had a brilliant idea. “Actually, Fëanáro, you saying that Makalaurë instructs his younger brothers in music has given me an idea. Findaráto enjoys playing the harp, but I would like to see his skill improved. It would be wonderful if Makalaurë could give him some instruction. Shall we arrange this for once a week, say, each Menelya?” His eager expression was also somehow determined, and he held Atar's gaze, even as Fëanáro's grip tightened on Makalaurë's shoulder.

In the end, it was Atar who looked away first. “If my son wishes to pass one day every week in such a fashion, he may.” The look he gave Makalaurë now made it clear he wanted him to refuse, but Makalaurë, seeing the look of understanding in his uncle's eyes, gathered his courage and nodded. “Thank you, Uncle. I would be pleased to increase Findaráto's skill upon the harp, as long as he is willing, and Menelya would be an excellent choice: I have no other tasks that day.”

Atar's fingernails dug into Makalaurë's shoulder through his tunic, becoming almost painful, but he ignored it, keeping his focus on Uncle Arafinwë.

“Wonderful!” Arafinwë clapped his hands together, beaming. “Then it's settled. I know you two must be off now, so I will bid you farewell, and we will see you on Menelya, Makalaurë.”

Atar turned away without another word, steering Makalaurë with him. Makalaurë managed a smile and a grateful nod to his uncle before Atar's rapid pace had him out of sight. The last sight he had of Arafinwë was a mingled look of triumph and worry upon his face- that was how Makalaurë felt too, really: he had won a small victory, one day each week to be out of his house, to spend time with Findaráto, and Atar had agreed, so even he could not protest now. But Atar was livid, he could tell that much just from the look in his eyes as he marched Makalaurë home.

 _It was worth it_. Makalaurë told himself, even as his stomach churned with dread at what Atar would say when they were within the walls of their home. _I'm going to have one day a week free of Atar and my brothers, so my 'defiance' (as Atar will no doubt call it) was worth it._ No matter how enraged Fëanáro was now at being 'manipulated' by Arafinwë, that one day of freedom each week, to spend with Findaráto in the far more relaxed atmosphere of Uncle Arafinwë's home made it worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Elven week had six days: Elenya, Anarya, Isilya, Aldúya, Menelya, and Valanya. I am interpreting Menelya to be equivalent to a Saturday, since Valanya is a holy day dedicated to the Valar, similar to our Sunday.


	14. Chapter 14

Makalaurë had braced himself for an explosion of temper from his atar as soon as the door closed behind them. Fëanáro had seethed silently for the entire walk home, his tight grip on Makalaurë's shoulder never slackening, yet he had said not a word nor looked at Makalaurë, his face carefully schooled to blankness. All bad signs. Yet, to his utter shock (and no small relief) Atar merely gave him one long look, conveying anger, disappointment and utter disgust, harsh enough to make Makalaurë cringe, before shaking his head and stalking off in the direction of his forge. It came as no surprise that he said nothing of the supposed 'music lessons' Makalaurë was meant to give the twins- it had been a fabrication, a lie told solely to get Makalaurë away from Uncle Arafinwë and his family. Fëanáro did not even look back as he stormed away from his son.

Puzzled, but thankful for the reprieve from his father's temper, Makalaurë darted up to his room, although he had no plans for the rest of today. When he had left that morning, his intent had been to spend the day with Findaráto. Atar had ruined that now though, and boredom was already seeding its way through his thoughts. Sighing heavily, he sat down on his bed- and started as a muffled high-pitched giggling came from beneath it. Recognizing the voices, he grinned, but proceeded to lie down as if he had no idea there were intruders in his room.

“It's such a shame that Atar needed me to return home early today,” He exclaimed theatrically. “Now I will have to spend hours alone with no-one to talk to...”

A shuffling sound came from under the bed, and Makalaurë raised an eyebrow comically, climbing off the bed and standing before it. “What might this be, under my bed? I understand that spiders like to gather in dark, small places... perhaps I should seize the eight-legged beast and slay it before it leaves its webs all over my room!”

Without warning, he dropped into a crouch and grabbed at the space beneath his bed, seizing one chubby arm in each hand and pulling their owners forward, revealing a rather dusty Ambarussa and Ambarto. “Aha, what an unusual spider I have uncovered! Eight limbed, but with two bodies, and the strangest red hair!”

Peals of laughter followed his announcement. “Cano! It's us!”

“We're not spiders!”

“You are not?” He squinted at them. “But you had crawled under my bed to hide, and you have eight limbs between you... are you sure?” He knew the twins well enough to know that his teasing would be the quickest way to get them to reveal _why_ they had decided they needed to hide under his bed, and he was not disappointed.

“We're supposed to have a craftsmanship lesson with Atarinke today, but we don't want to go.”

“So we came in here to ask you to play music for us instead.”

“But you weren't here!” This last was spoken by the twins in unison, and their tone was so put-upon that Makalaurë had to laugh.

“We found your letter though.” Ambarto offered him a crumpled parchment that he dimly recalled tossing aside, having decided it was too familiar to actually send to Ëarlossë. He'd started anew, with the letter that had been (hopefully) dispatched by now, and had planned to dispose of the old one more thoroughly later. The twins having hold of it worried him, but at least their reading was not too good yet- it would be far worse for him if any of his other brothers had found it.

Taking the parchment, he gave the twins a stern look. “Thank you, but you do remember it is considered rude to read letters that do not concern you?”

Both of them nodded earnestly. “We would never read anyone's private letters. Promise!”

“Who's Ëarlossë?”

"Why are you writing to her?"

Makalaurë nearly groaned. He considered pointing out that they'd just broken their own promise, but they were too young to understand, really. He willed his face to stop reddening as he replied, as casually as he could. “Just a friend I made in Alqualondë. She asked me to instruct her in music, and I will be sending her lessons to work on.”

As he'd hoped, the mention of lessons immediately bored both of the seven-year-olds, and the matter was dropped. Their young minds soon found something else to concentrate on. “Can you take us to see Anatar Finwë today?”

“Why?” He was surprised: they saw their grandfather often enough, but for the twins to _request_ to be taken to the palace, a trip that, given their usual speed of travel, would take up most of the day... He narrowed his eyes, his suspicions rising. The twins not wanting to do their lesson with Atarinke, hiding in Makalaurë's room, even though they _must_ have known he was not there, and now they wished to be out of the house all day... “What did the two of you do to Atarinke?”

“Nothing!” The denial came from both of them, far too quickly to be sincere, especially as they both refused to make eye contact as they spoke.

“Mm-hmm.” He folded his arms. “Try again.”

The elflings exchanged guilty looks, but before either of them could reply, angry shouts could be heard, coming from the direction of Atarinke's room. The twins ran to hide behind Makalaurë, each clinging to one of his hands.

He closed his eyes, counting to ten silently, praying for patience. It was typical that, having avoided Atar losing his temper, he would now have to deal with Atarinke doing just that, and protect the twins from the consequences of... whatever they had done.

Atarinke's footsteps pounded along the hallway just outside, and Makalaurë braced himself as his younger brother burst into the room, blazing eyes already searching for the twins. _I bet Ëarlossë never has to deal with this amount of stress._ Much as he loved all his brothers, he could see the appeal in being an only child, especially at times like this.

Tuning out Atarinke's ranting, while shielding the twins behind him, Makalaurë let his mind wander, wondering what Ëarlossë's average day was like- probably far more peaceful than what was going on in his home!

* * *

Ëarlossë let out a deep sigh as she watched the courier strolling along the road. It had been a month and two weeks since Makalaurë had left Alqualondë (not that she had been counting the days, that would be foolish) but he had said he would write. Yet there had been nothing since he'd left, and with each passing week, her hopes fell further. He had been so kind and friendly to her when he had been here, and she had believed he would keep his word. The promised music lessons had been like a dream come true, and the chance to see him again... she longed for it more than she would admit to anyone. But the promised letter had not come, and over the past few days, doubts had begun to seep into her thoughts. _Did you truly think he would deign to recall your existence once he was back at home in his lavish palace, with servants at his beck and call? You're the daughter of a fishmonger! Why would a High Prince of the Noldor see you as anything more than an amusing diversion, in a place where no-one knows him?_

Tears stung her eyes, and her teeth clenched in the effort to not allow them to fall. She had honestly thought Makalaurë liked her; he had told her the truth, hadn't he? If he had never intended to contact her again, why would he have done that? But the belief that she had been naïve, and that she would never hear from him again, would not leave her mind. And waiting here at this time each day, in the vain hope of receiving something from the courier who worked in this part of Alqualondë, was likely naught but a waste of her time.

Scowling, she turned her back on the street, fully intending to return home and set aside thoughts of Makalaurë: clearly, she would never hear from him again. Well, good riddance, if he had only been playing her false! The thought pained her, but best to accept it now, surely. Too much time had passed for her to keep hoping that he hadn't simply forgotten the silly elleth in Alqualondë with dreams of learning music.

“Excuse me. Are you Ëarlossë Falmagiliel?” The voice made her start, and she whirled around, her heart pounding. She barely remembered to nod to confirm her identity, as the courier offered her a thick envelope. Despite her determination to set Makalaurë aside, hope surged within her as she examined the letter. Written in an elegant hand, her name and address were clearly legible on the fine parchment of the envelope, and on the reverse of the letter was a stamped seal she was unfamiliar with, an odd eight-rayed star.

“It's the seal of the House of Fëanáro.” The courier was eyeing her with blatant curiosity. “First time I've seen its like in Alqualondë, and you're not...” He cleared his throat. “Not... the type of person I'd expect to deliver such a thing to, if you'll forgive me.” It was obvious he was eager to know what the envelope contained, but Ëarlossë was awash in such glee that she barely heard his words. Makalaurë _had_ written to her, at last. She had not been forgotten! She thanked the courier as quickly as possible, before turning and all but running back into her house and up to her room, eagerly ripping the envelope open, already considering places to hide the envelope- she had not told her parents of Makalaurë's title, and having them find an envelope with the seal of Prince Fëanáro upon it would give rise to lots of awkward questions. Amil and Atar would only become anxious for her and her reputation, if they knew who 'that nice Noldor ellon' truly was, and like as not would try to forbid, or simply dissuade her from continuing the friendship.

For now, it was best to keep 'her secret prince'- she grinned as that thought crossed her mind, as she sprawled upon her bed to read the letter- to herself. _Mine indeed! As if he sees aught in me but a friend who enjoys music, who is not daunted by his family_. Still, as she eagerly drank in the first two words: 'Dear Ëarlossë,' and every other word Makalaurë had written to her, she indulged her more whimsical thoughts, of a future involving more than friendship between them. It would never happen, of course, but there was no harm in dreaming, was there?

Life was no fairy tale, where ordinary, common-born ellith such as her got to wed a prince, but imagining that it could happen.... that wouldn't hurt anyone.

* * *

**Translations:**

**Falmagiliel: daughter of Falmagil**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: Makalaurë's half of this chapter takes place immediately after Chapter 13. Ëarlossë's half of the chapter takes place about a week after that, to give the letter time to reach Alqualondë. I couldn't think of a way to make that obvious within the chapter, so I'm explaining here.


	15. Chapter 15

Makalaurë could barely keep a grin from his face as he left his house just after breakfast on Menelya, calling a cheerful goodbye to Amil as he closed the door. Atar had mostly ignored him for the past few days, which stung a little, although Makalaurë would not admit it, but it was better than being on the receiving end of his anger. And now he had the whole day to spend with Findaráto! Obviously, it was for the purpose of instructing his cousin in music, but he hoped they would find the time to simply relax and talk as well.

He was almost whistling to himself as he made his way toward his uncle's home, the streets fairly empty at this early hour, when the sound of padding footsteps not far behind him made him pause, and turn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blur of something grey disappear around a corner, and, puzzled, he retraced his steps to find out what it was.

His heart sank when he caught up with the 'blur' and found that it was Huan, and Tyelkormo, now pressed against a building, as if they'd hoped not to be discovered.

“Why are you following me?”

Huan whined, sad eyes turning to Makalaurë as he inched forward, his tail down, to lick his hand apologetically. Tyelkormo merely scowled.

“Atar said I could accompany you if I wished: since you're spending time with our half-cousins, he thought I might like to do the same.”

Makalaurë nearly groaned aloud. He could think of no argument against that. Tyelkormo seemed to have taken Atar at his word, even though he _knew_ of Fëanáro's strong dislike of his half-brothers, yet he could see no ulterior motive in this idea. Makalaurë, however, could see his atar's reasoning all too well. If Tyelkormo accompanied him to Arafinwë's, without a doubt his usual abrasive attitude would offend someone in some manner, and make it far less likely that Makalaurë would be welcomed there again. He clenched his teeth. Would Atar stop at _nothing_ to make sure Makalaurë did not strengthen his friendship with Findaráto? He thought rapidly, trying to work out a way to put Tyelkormo off.

“You are aware that Uncle Arafinwë arranged this so I could further Cousin Findaráto's knowledge of music? Unless you have developed a keener interest in such things, today will be exceedingly dull for you.”

Huan yipped as if agreeing with this. Tyelkormo frowned, clearly thinking about it. Makalaurë glanced down the street anxiously- Arafinwë's home was only a few doors away. He would prefer to be rid of Tyelko quickly, before Findaráto or one of his siblings stepped out to see if he had arrived yet. “Why don't you and Huan go hunting instead, brother, and we can meet here in a few hours, when I am done tutoring Findaráto? Atar never has to know.”

“Well...”

 _Please just agree and leave_ , Makalaurë pled silently. _Before-_

“Makalaurë!” Artanis' bright, clear voice echoed loudly in the near-silent morning, and it was all he could do not to grimace. During his last conversation with Findaráto, he had stated that he never wanted his hot-tempered brother to meet their outspoken cousin, and, because of course his life could never be easy, now they were about to do just that. He struggled to coax a serene expression onto his face as Artanis walked towards them, clearly pleased to see Makalaurë, at least, although there was undisguised curiosity on her face as she took in Tyelkormo and Huan.

Tyelkormo himself was all but gawking at Artanis as she approached, and for an instant, Makalaurë realized how their young cousin, of a similar age to Tyelkormo himself, might appear in his brother's eyes- her comely young face, the waves of startling gold-silver hair, those dazzling blue eyes... To Makalaurë, she was just a child, Findaráto's sister and his cousin. It was... disquieting to know that Tyelkormo might see more than that, and he stepped forward, blocking his view of her, and making a point of speaking first.

“Artanis.” He accepted her kiss on the cheek, and returned it, a kinsman's greeting. “Good morning to you, little cousin.” And if he'd put a slight emphasis on that last word for Tyelkormo's benefit, so what? His brother needed to snap out of his stupor, and if announcing that Artanis was close kin to them didn't do it, he had no idea what would.

It seemed to have worked, for Tyelkormo blinked a few times, then shook his head, appearing to gather his wits. “Ah, so you must be Uncle Arafinwë's daughter?”

Makalaurë hid his wince. _So much for Tyelko gathering his wits_.

Artanis stared at him. “Since I came out of his house, and Makalaurë just addressed me as 'cousin', I would hope so.” Her tone made it clear that she thought Tyelkormo some manner of idiot. “And... you are?”

Tyelkormo was bristling now at the tone of voice Artanis had used, and Makalaurë interrupted quickly. “Artanis, this is my younger brother Tyelkormo.”

Tyelko stood taller, as if he wished to appear more impressive. “A pleasure to meet you.” He waited, as if hoping to receive the kinsman's greeting that Makalaurë had, even turning his head just slightly, proffering his cheek, but Artanis merely held his gaze for a long minute before nodding.

“Good to meet you as well, cousin.”

Huan trotted over to her to say hello, and he received a far more friendly greeting- Artanis smiled warmly, scratching at the hound's chin and fondling his ears. “Aren't you a beautiful dog? What's your name, hmm?”

“His name is Huan. He was a gift to me from Lord Oromë.” Tyelkormo swaggered. “He often has me accompany him on hunts.” If he was expecting a huge reaction from Artanis, he was disappointed. She merely nodded, petted Huan once more, then turned her gaze back to Makalaurë, her dismissal of Tyelkormo obvious. “Shall we go inside, Makalaurë? Findaráto is eager to begin his lessons with you- he hasn't truly ceased praising your musical skill since he heard you in the Music Conservatory in Alqualondë.”

Makalaurë's face reddened, as it always did at such praise. “Of course.” He took her arm when it was offered, hiding a grin- typically, it was the ellon who was meant to offer his arm to the elleth, but clearly Artanis cared little for such conventions. “Tyelkormo, thank you for keeping me company on the walk here.” He thought it was better to imply to Artanis that his brother's presence was welcomed. “Good luck on your hunt today. I will see you later.” Arm in arm with Artanis, he turned and walked away, hoping that his hint had been obvious even to his not-overly-discerning brother, and that Tyelko would simply leave.

He got his wish, after a fashion: as Artanis returned inside her home, calling out that Makalaurë had arrived, sounding truly pleased to announce that, a rarity for Makalaurë, to have people eager to see him, he managed a glance back at the street as the door closed, and he saw that Huan was 'helping' Tyelkormo leave, repeatedly butting his head against Tyelko's legs, herding him away. Judging by his expression, Tyelkormo was far from happy about it, but Makalaurë was relieved: Tyelkormo's presence here, spending a day in the company of Artanis... He could think of no better way to ensure a disaster, given Tyelko's penchant for showing off, and Artanis' clear lack of regard for him.

 _But enough about fractious siblings and cousins for now_ , he told himself as he went and greeted Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen, before being informed that Findaráto was in the study, a clear invitation to go and find him, which Makalaurë took, finding himself more eager than he had expected to spend several hours with Findaráto without the looming specter of Atar turning up to ruin things.

For once, he could spend a day doing precisely what _he_ wanted, enjoying Findaráto's company, without worrying about being ridiculed. He intended to enjoy every moment of it.

As for what tall tales Tyelko might come up with, when he inevitably went to Atar with his woes at Artanis' attitude towards him... Makalaurë put the thought aside. He could deal with that later. Finding the study with ease, he returned Findaráto's warm greeting with a smile. Today, he would not think of his problematic family at all. Today, he would just have fun.


	16. Chapter 16

The two hours of harp instruction that Makalaurë had given Findaráto had flown by. He had found his cousin to be a skilled harpist and an eager learner, so the lesson was enjoyable for them both, and eventually had it given way to more casual conversation. Findaráto was doubled over laughing at Makalaurë's tales of some of the twins' antics, tears of mirth streaming down his face, when Angaráto burst into the study without knocking, making them both jump, only to pronounce 'Lunch is ready!' and race straight back out again, heading for the dining room.

Findaráto rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Angaráto!" He called after his brother, chastising him, before shaking his head at Makalaurë, looking rueful. "He's always thinking with his stomach, and he thinks manners are optional.” He gathered the sheets of harp music that Makalaurë had written for him to use as practice pieces into a stack, leaving it neatly on the desk, before ushering Makalaurë out of the study. “I am often glad I have only two brothers to deal with, and not six. It must be hard work when five of them are younger than you.”

Makalaurë didn't want to get drawn into a discussion about his middle brothers. “Sometimes. But then again, having a sister must be challenging, in different ways?”

A merry laugh was Findaráto's reply, the joyous sound making Makalaurë grin. “You have a point there, my friend! Especially when the sister is Artanis.”

They were outside the dining room now, and an unfamiliar female voice could be heard within, speaking softly. Makalaurë paused, suddenly uncertain. “I did not know you had another guest today...”

Findaráto blinked, then turned his head towards the closed dining room door, brow furrowing as he listened to the voices inside. A grin spread across his face and he edged close enough to Makalaurë to whisper. “Ah, Eldalótë has joined us. She is the real reason Angaráto was in such a hurry to get to lunch.”

Makalaurë frowned- the elleth's name was vaguely familiar, but he could not say where from.

“She is the niece of Anatar Finwë's treasurer,” Findaráto explained, still in a whisper, “And she often spends time here, as a companion to Artanis. Angaráto much enjoys her company, and she his.” His voice dropped still further, turning conspiratorial. “Aikanáro, Artanis and I have placed wagers upon when he will finally dare to ask to court her officially.”

Despite his unease about meeting another young elf with familial ties to Anatar Finwë's court, (having had less than pleasant experiences with ellith of the nobility who were only interested in his title, not he himself, and had soon dropped him for Tyelkormo or Maitimo's attentions) Makalaurë was intrigued to meet the elleth who had befriended the outspoken Artanis, and who, it seemed, was interested in Angaráto, considering (from Makalaurë's experience with him to date) that Angaráto was rather brash and impatient. Without further ado, Findaráto opened the dining room door and stepped inside, immediately taking a seat, gesturing for Makalaurë to join him at the seat to his right, while smiling at Eldalótë, introducing Makalaurë to her as if he were a regular guest and not a first-time visitor.

Eldalótë, seated beside Aunt Eärwen, greeted him kindly enough, but Makalaurë's first impression was, if he was honest, of a young fawn. Big brown eyes surrounded by thick eyelashes, soft waves of honey-brown hair streaked with lighter blonde, skin a few shades darker than the typical creamy-white of the Noldor of Tirion, suggesting that one of her parents hailed from the warmer regions to the south of Tirion, a pretty, rounded face, and a delicate, petite build. Her voice was gentle, almost meek. He could not picture her at the side of Artanis or Angaráto, except as someone who would look good, but scarcely be noticeable, beside them. His impressions of Artanis _and_ Angaráto to date were that they were very keen to make their opinions known and to have their own way. Eldalótë, when he imagined her with either of them, would be utterly drowned out by the strength in their minds and hearts. Obviously, he kept such thoughts to himself, and prayed they didn't show on his face as they sat down to eat.

As the servants brought out numerous dishes and trays of food, swiftly and efficiently, Makalaurë's mind drifted back to the lunch he had shared with Ëarlossë and her parents in Alqualondë. It had been poor fare compared to this, but still... the warmth, the bond of family that had permeated the atmosphere there was also prevalent here, in Uncle Arafinwë's home. He wished there was some way to bring about this kind of harmony in his own family- they had not sat together for a meal like this, laughing and talking with such ease, since Carnistir had been an elfling.

He tried to put such morose thoughts aside, and instead watched Angaráto morph from his confident self to a clumsy, barely articulate oaf when speaking to Eldalótë. She did not seem to mind- indeed, she barely seemed to notice, blushing prettily when he paid her the slightest compliment, but returning his attentions easily enough, while including the rest of them in conversation whenever she could, not monopolizing Angaráto, nor allowing him to do so to her. Perhaps, Makalaurë reflected, her appearance gave the wrong impression, perhaps there was more to Eldalótë than he had thought.

Still, he found himself exchanging amused glances with Findaráto, and hiding grins a lot, when Angaráto seemed to lose all his wits and spouted rambling nonsense, his face turning scarlet each time he tripped over his own words.

Was this how Makalaurë himself had sounded when addressing Ëarlossë, in front of her parents, he wondered suddenly. Valar, he hoped he had not sounded _that_ big of a fool in front of her, and Eäranna and Falmagil! If so, he might never live it down...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eldalótë is a canon character, she is named in the History of Middle-Earth series as Angrod's wife and Orodreth's mother. Her physical appearance, and her uncle being a part of Finwë's court, is entirely my own invention though. In case anyone is interested, my reference for Eldalótë's appearance is this image of Jessica Burciaga:
> 
> https://d1w8cc2yygc27j.cloudfront.net/7370911199997256593/134753402037561684.jpg
> 
> I found this image on Google, I am borrowing it for reference purposes: I do not own it.


	17. Chapter 17

“Makalaurë, could you come here?” Amil called up the stairs, disturbing his harp practice- he was practising a song with two parts, that he intended to begin teaching Findaráto in their next lesson at the end of the week. “The courier has just been and there are letters for you.”

His usual annoyance at having his music interrupted vanished, and he all but ran down the stairs. The only people who had any reason to be writing to him were Ëarlossë, and his other tentative friends from the music conservatory in Alqualondë. Reaching the foot of the stairs by leaping down the last three, he couldn't help but grin when he saw the sheaf of letters Amil was holding out to him. She looked curious, but, to his relief, merely handed them over, not prying into who had sent them as Atar certainly would have done. Makalaurë thanked her absent-mindedly, thumbing through the pile as he walked back upstairs and into his room, hoping to find the letter from Ëarlossë and read that first, though of course he would not recognize Ëarlossë's handwriting, as he had never seen it.

The thickest letter was written on cheap, rough vellum, as opposed to the fine parchment of the others. That had to be Ëarlossë's letter, so, setting the other envelopes on his bedside table to be read later, he sprawled on his bed, eager to 'hear' from Ëarlossë first. Opening the crude seal on the envelope, he paused, frowning, then set the letter down. He went and closed his bedroom door, then shoved a chair beneath the door handle. It would not prevent any of his brothers barging in- except possibly the twins- but at least he would have enough warning to hide the letters if that happened. The last thing he needed was for his brothers to get wind of his friendship with Ëarlossë, or his communicating with anyone from the music conservatory, since Atar had forbidden any mention of the subject.

Returning to his bed, he sat down with a happy sigh, relaxing back against his pillows to read Ëarlossë's words to him. Apart from anything else, he was curious as to how she had fared with the lessons he had sent her, mostly on writing and reading music, and theory, for now, until he somehow got a chance to see her once more and hear her skill for himself, gauging its level.

Her handwriting was... sloppy, for lack of a better word, nowhere near as legible or polished as his own. Makalaurë could have kicked himself for thinking such a thing though- as if Ëarlossë would have had calligraphy lessons with a tutor as a child, spending entire lessons copying out the Tengwar until they were perfectly formed! He could read her letter, which was all that mattered- her words to him were infinitely more precious than how precisely they were formed. He found himself chuckling as he read her attempts to guess at what he had been doing with himself since returning to Tirion- her views on what a High Prince did all day were a far cry from the reality of his life! _I wonder if all common-born Elves believe us nobles do naught but laze around amusing ourselves, with servants answering our every whim?_ Fine, perhaps there was _some_ truth to that, but Makalaurë, and his brothers and their parents, as well as their other kin, all had responsibilities and work to do as well!

That thought tugged at something in his mind, something he had forgotten while getting caught up in his harp playing. He frowned, but could not recall what it was that nagged at him. Deciding it could not be that important, he shrugged and returned his gaze to Ëarlossë's letter, laughing softly as she described how she had attempted, once more, to go clamming when the other fishermen's sons did- something they had discussed, briefly, when they had first met- and how, through no fault of Ëarlossë's, several of them had ended up partaking of the icy-cold seawater 'to cool their hot tempers and still their harsh tongues', to put it in her words. He could easily picture her pushing the rude ellyn into the waves, and idly wondered if she would use such tactics if she were to meet the likes of Tyelkormo.

The thought sobered him immediately. What was he thinking? He did not ever want his brother- any of his brothers- or worse, his atar, to come near Ëarlossë.

 _Well, what do you want, then?_ His conscience pricked him. _You know you wish to become closer to her. Do you think that's possible while keeping her very existence from your family?_

He closed his eyes, willing the disquieting thought away- he would worry about that later. Returning to the letter again, he turned to the third page, tilting his head to one side curiously. Ëarlossë had, without any prompting, made an attempt at writing a song. Reading through it, he was surprised. She had only just learned which symbol stood for which musical note in written form, from a lesson he had sent less than three weeks ago, and yet this first attempt at a song... for an utter novice, it was impressive. She seemed to have an instinctual knowledge of which notes fitted together well, and he found himself humming along as he read her cheerful little song, wondering if it had a title, or if he should give it one.

His door handle rattled, startling him into silence. Quickly, he shoved Ëarlossë's letter beneath his pillow, as the rattling became a pounding.

“Makalaurë!” It was Carnistir's voice, intense and annoyed, as usual. “Stop wasting time wishing you were a songbird and get ready! Atar has changed his mind and insists we all attend the feast after all, so we must hasten if we're not to be late!”

 _Feast? What feast?_ It took a moment for Makalaurë to remember; today was Aunt Findis', his grandfather and Indis' eldest child's, begetting day, and Anatar Finwë and Lady Indis were, as usual, celebrating by throwing a feast for the entire court. Atar had, at first, utterly refused to go, as he always did, then he had grudgingly conceded that _he_ would go, out of respect for his father, but none of the rest of the family would accompany him, which had disappointed Makalaurë- he had hoped to go and spend some time with his cousins, especially as he suspected that Maitimo, who was visiting Findekáno yet again, would be attending the feast (he had slipped out earlier that day with his best clothes packed carefully, though only Makalaurë had noticed that). He had resigned himself to not attending the feast, but now, evidently, Atar had changed his mind yet again (no doubt due to Amil's influence, Makalaurë reflected) and they all were to go.

“Makalaurë!” Carnistir was almost bellowing now, and Makalaurë rolled his eyes.

“All right! Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready!” He was already pulling open his wardrobe, taking out his best tunic, a fine, emerald-green brocade with a dull yellow silk lining, and beginning to change. Rushing through readying himself, and combing back his hair so his ceremonial thin gold circlet would sit firmly atop his head, he admitted- silently- that he was looking forward to going: it was another chance to spend time with Findaráto and his siblings, something he looked forward to more each week. The only downside to attending a feast at the Noldoran's court was that, without question, he would be asked to sing or to play, and be unable to refuse politely. Atar would be livid at his son performing to honor his half-sister's Begetting Day, so he would be in a foul temper for days afterwards.

Makalaurë hastily finished dressing and eyed his harp: should he take his preferred instrument with him from the beginning, as if he expected to be asked to perform, and risk souring Atar's mood before they even left the house, or not take it and end up having to play whatever old instrument was handed to him in the palace?

Grimacing at the thought of having to play some improperly tuned harp or fiddle, he nonetheless left his beloved harp where it was- he could play anything that was reasonably in tune, and it was better to keep Atar in a good mood for as long as possible. He did, however, at the last minute, after tugging on his (uncomfortable) fine black leather boots, seize the song that Ëarlossë had composed, tucking it into his tunic pocket. It was lively and cheerful enough to be played as a celebratory feast, and people would assume the song was his own composition. It made him smile to think of writing to Ëarlossë, to tell her he had played her song at a princess' Begetting Day feast, and how much people had enjoyed it, as he was sure they would.

That thought, and the notion of spending more time with Findaráto during the feast which was sure to be far too long, kept his mood buoyed as he ran down to join his family, all, save Atar, as hastily dressed up in their finery as Makalaurë was. To his surprise, Huan stood beside Tyelkormo, for all the world as if he was accompanying them to the feast too! Fëanáro surveyed them all, his face set, before simply giving a nod, saying nothing about Huan's presence, merely taking Amil's arm and leading them from the house, his face unreadable but his eyes like thunder.

 _Just think about the fact that you will get to play a new song,_ Makalaurë told himself, _And that you will get to spend time with Findaráto. What mood Atar is in is no concern of yours. He is an adult, and should be used to his siblings' Begetting Day's celebrations by now_. He just hoped that Atar did not intend to try and upstage or spoil Findis' Begetting Day somehow- he quite liked his kind, cheerful aunt, for all that he saw her only occasionally, and didn't want her upset.

Atar said not a word as they made their way to the palace, and Makalaurë tried to pretend his heart wasn't sinking when no-one but him seemed to notice anything amiss. _Please don't let him have something in mind to ruin things today. Findis doesn't deserve that._


	18. Chapter 18

Soft, lilting harp music flowed through the cavernous feasting hall, interrupted here and there by spatters of conversation, though none of the words were audible from the High Table where Makalaurë and his family were seated. Luckily, so far, Atar had not caused any kind of scene, and Findis' Begetting Day feast had not been ruined (although Fëanáro's greeting to his half-sister had been terse and just shy of rude, no-one had drawn attention to it, or to the lack of any Begetting Day gifts from him or his family.) Now the feast was well underway. Findis sat between her parents at the very center of the High Table. She was smiling happily enough, despite Fëanáro being seated on Finwë's right, and taking up rather a lot of the Noldoran's attention. The hall itself was festooned with garlands of yellow roses, the flower of Findis' personal sigil, and the fragrance they gave off was potent, almost overpowering. (It had been the first thing Atar had grumbled about upon arriving, though only so that his wife and sons could hear, thankfully.)

Makalaurë sighed, trying to turn his attention elsewhere, telling himself that his father's behavior was not his concern. Glancing about, he saw Maitimo, deep in conversation with Findekáno as they slipped away from the High Table, unnoticed: Maitimo certainly did not appear to be wasting any energy worrying about what Atar was doing! So why couldn't Makalaurë stop worrying about him somehow ruining this special occasion for Findis?

“Makalaurë?” Angaráto's voice broke into his thoughts, making him start. “Eldalótë wondered if you would be willing to play for us tonight, once the court musicians tire?”

Makalaurë blinked, looking around for Eldalótë, but she did not seem to be nearby. He raised a brow at Angaráto in question. His cousin shrugged, almost defensively. “She did not wish to bother you if you are unwilling, but...”

Out of the corner of his eye, Makalaurë saw Fëanáro glance towards Maitimo's empty chair, and then, immediately, look towards Ñolofinwë's family, noting the absence of Findekáno. Seconds later, his eyes narrowed as he saw Maitimo and Findekáno slipping out of the hall. Makalaurë's heart sank, silently cursing his older brother's all-too-noticeable red hair, as Fëanáro got to his feet, his face darkening. No doubt Atar was about to start an argument with his half-brother, thereby ruining the mood of the feast. Thinking quickly, he stood up himself, effectively blocking his atar from leaving the table, pasting a convincing smile on his face. “Of course, cousin, I'd be happy to do so.” He moved, leaving his chair pushed away from the table, again making it harder for Atar to pursue Maitimo, or to go and start sniping at Ñolofinwë. “I should greet your parents and siblings anyway. And Aunt Findis, of course.” Atar had greeted her, but had moved his family on so quickly that not even Nerdanel had had a chance to wish Findis a happy Begetting Day yet.

He saw, with some relief, that Amil had intercepted Atar, and Fëanáro, although glowering, had returned to his chair. Some of the tension left Makalaurë, and he let Angaráto lead him away. Pausing to bow before Anatar and Lady Indis (ignoring Atar's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head) Makalaurë offered them, and Findis, greetings, and well-wishes for his aunt's Begetting Day, as well as promising to perform a new song (Ëarlossë's composition) in Findis' honor, later in the evening. That would do as a gift, surely? Songs and poems were often gifted to others for their Begetting Days, and it was better than insulting Findis, as Atar had, by intentionally giving her nothing at all. The customary greetings over with, Makalaurë moved off, electing not to rejoin his family, instead taking a seat among his part-Telerin cousins after greeting Uncle Arafinwë and Aunt Eärwen.

Findaráto and Artanis greeted him warmly, of course, and Eldalótë, who was likewise sitting among the family, gave him a shrewder look than he expected when he greeted her, reassuring her that he would, indeed, be singing later, as she wished.

“I look forward to it.” Her voice was as girlish and sweet as it had been the last time they met, but there was an almost sly look in her eyes. “Findaráto and Artanis have nothing but praise for your music, and it seemed you were not much enjoying sitting among your family. Requesting something of you was the best way to give you the option of slipping away if you wished for it.”

Makalaurë smiled wryly at her, looking back over his shoulder at his parents and brothers: Fëanáro was sitting rigidly in his chair, his face a taut mask, as Anatar Finwë had now focused on Findis, and was deep in cheerful conversation with his daughter. Amil, Makalaurë noted, was speaking softly, no doubt trying to calm him, with little effect.

Carnistir was imbibing red wine as if it were water, the flush of intoxication making his face ruddier than ever. Tyelkormo was sprawled languidly in his chair, looking superbly bored, even yawning at one point. Atarinke's posture mimicked Atar's, though no-one was taking much notice, and there was no sign of Ambarussa and Ambarto- chances were they had slipped beneath the table to giggle between themselves. Maitimo, of course, had left the hall, for some reason, though no doubt he would be back. He was too honorable to deliberately miss a feast like this, so he had to have left for a reason, he and Findekáno. What that reason might be, Makalaurë had no idea, thus he jumped when they both re-entered through the main doors, leading a yearling colt of all things, a stunning creature, with a shining grey coat, and making their way to the High Table, bowing before Findis and presenting her with the colt, as a gift from both of them.

There was clapping and cheering at the unusual gift, before Anatar Finwë called for servants to take the colt to the stables. Huan emerged from beneath the table, near to Tyelkormo's seat, stretched and followed the horse and its handlers out to the stables: no doubt the hound was bored of having to remain quiet and still inside the hall. Findis then stood, embracing and kissing the cheeks of both Maitimo and Findekáno in thanks, her merry grin nearly splitting her face.

Maitimo then took a seat beside Findekáno, amongst Ñolofinwë and the rest of his family, and Makalaurë felt a knot of fear in his stomach, not even daring to look in his atar's direction now. Maitimo would be in so much trouble when this feast was over and they returned home...

 _But I am not going to worry about any of my brothers, for once_. Makalaurë told himself firmly, shaking his head as if to wipe responsibility from it, and concentrating on his cousins. Artanis had just dropped an obvious hint about her own Begetting Day, which apparently was coming up soon, and Makalaurë made a mental note of the date, so he could actually give his young cousin a gift- as long as Atar didn't find out, of course. _I will have to consult Findaráto on what to get, as well_ , he reflected. He had no idea what kind of gift would be suitable for an adolescent elleth, and, knowing Artanis, the 'typical' gift would not be what she wanted anyway! He would bring it up the next time he gave Findaráto a harp lesson. For now, he would simply enjoy the feast as best he could, surrounded by friends (while running through the song Ëarlossë had created in his mind, trying to decide which tempo it should be played at.)

Before too long, he was being called to perform, and ushered to where the musicians were gathered, a harp thrust into his hands. Inhaling deeply, quashing his usual pre-performance nerves, he tuned the harp, then drew the written composition from his pocket. Smiling in Aunt Findis' direction (while carefully not looking at Atar) he dedicated the song to her Begetting Day, then began playing immediately. The lively, cheerful song soon had people humming along, and then couples began to dance, laughter and joy almost tangible in the air. Makalaurë finished that song, then began some more traditional songs used at Begetting Days, taking encore after encore until Findaráto interrupted, leading him away with a jest about letting the actual musicians do their tasks, while pressing a goblet into Makalaurë's hands.

Makalaurë remained with his irrepressibly kind cousin for the rest of the evening, then departed later, at Maitimo's request- his older brother was taking the half-asleep twins home and wished for Makalaurë's help, as their parents and other brothers were remaining. Makalaurë _was_ somewhat tired, so he bade farewell to his cousins and took Ambarto into his arms, while Maitimo carried Ambarussa. He did glance back at his parents, but Atar was now enjoying Anatar Finwë's full attention once more, while Amil was speaking to Lady Indis and Aunt Findis. Tyelkormo, Carnistir and Atarinke were... somewhere in the hall, mingling with other young Elves, but not in sight. Makalaurë shrugged- it was getting late, but his middle brothers were not babes: let them look after themselves. Once he'd helped Maitimo get the twins home and into bed, he would be able to plead exhaustion to Maitimo, retire to his room, and write and tell Ëarlossë how her first composition had been received. He stifled a chuckle, picturing how she would react when she learned he had performed her song at the Begetting Day feast of a princess...


	19. Chapter 19

Makalaurë was hunched over his desk, a frown upon his face as he tried to complete a series of lessons: Findaráto had asked for them in written form, so he did not lose his skill with the harp during the summer, while he was in Alqualondë, away from Makalaurë and their weekly lessons. The task was proving more difficult than Makalaurë had anticipated. He generally just wrote music, memorized it and played it. It took considerably more detail to create a lesson, in writing, for another musician. _It is a good thing I have no desire to become a teacher of music._ That thought, of course, only brought to mind the music conservatory in Alqualondë, that he had not dared to mention again after Atar's reaction to it, almost two months ago now. In a few short days, Arafinwë and his family would be going to Alqualondë, where they would remain for the whole summer. Makalaurë's heart ached to join them, but Fëanáro would never allow it. And, since Maitimo had, a week ago, taken himself off to journey to Vanyamar alongside Findekáno without so much as a 'by your leave' to their parents... no. Best not risk angering Atar any further by mentioning Alqualondë. Besides, he couldn't leave Amil alone with the little twins being the only ones who did not cause trouble on a daily basis. If there was some way they could _all_ go to Olwë's realm... Makalaurë's heart ached with longing at the very thought, but it would not happen. Amil might agree with him, but there would be no talking Atar into it.

At least, for now, the house was quiet: Fëanáro had taken Atarinke into the forge several hours ago, Tyelkormo had been off hunting with Lord Oromë for the past few days, and Ambarussa and Ambarto were with Amil, visiting Anatar Mahtan, her father. He had been invited, of course, but had cried off- he had given Findaráto his word that he would have these lessons ready before his cousin departed Tirion, and they had to last for the entire summer. Having the remainder of this day free of the noise generated by his siblings was a blessing. (Carnistir was here somewhere, having declined to visit Mahtan, but Makalaurë had little idea where: he would appear when food was offered, and as he was making no noise, and was not an infant, he could please himself.)

Many minutes of headache-inducing work later, Makalaurë set down his quill with a sigh of relief. Hopefully, that would be enough to keep Findaráto's harping skills sharp while he was away. Already the long eight weeks or so seemed to sprawl endlessly- eight weeks in which Makalaurë would be essentially alone with his family, with the tension that filled his every interaction with Atar, with the ceaseless heckling from his three middle brothers, and he would not even have the prospect of the weekly visit to Arafinwë's as an escape to look forward to. His shoulders slumped at the very thought.

A loud rapping sound broke into his thoughts, the sudden onset of the noise making him leap to his feet. It took a moment for him to register what it was: someone knocking at the main door downstairs. Puzzled, because as far as he knew, they expected no visitors, he quickly tidied his appearance and made his way down the stairs, reaching the door just as the knock sounded again.

A strange chill ran down his spine, a thrill almost of foreboding, but he disregarded it, opening the door, attempting to smile warmly and keep his curiosity (and inexplicable unease) from his face.

His jaw dropped and he almost bowed instinctively to the tall, beautiful (glowing) figure that stood there. It was immediately apparent that this was no Elf, despite looking like one. Makalaurë's mind struggled to identify this visitor, and unbidden, a memory of one of the festivals held on Taniquetil surfaced. This being looked a great deal like... “Lord Manwë?”

He knew he was mistaken the instant the words left his mouth, though he could not say why. There was great similarity between this being and the Elder King, but, something was just.. off. Comprehension dawned, and without meaning to, Makalaurë stepped backwards, wanting more distance between himself and his 'guest'. “My apologies... Lord Melkor.” His stomach clenched even speaking the name of the one who had once been the greatest Enemy of the world. Remorseful for his sins and reformed he might be, but his presence still frightened something deep within Makalaurë. “I meant no offence, but you do bear a great resemblance to-”

“My brother, I am aware.” Melkor's voice was silky, honeyed, almost soothing. “It matters not. How were you to know when you and I have not met before, my young prince...?”

His words, trailing into a question, were a clear invitation for Makalaurë to introduce himself, but before he could do so, another being was just suddenly _there_ , at Melkor's side.

A Maia, Makalaurë realized. It had to be, for this being glowed with a light similar to that emanating from Melkor, but to a lesser degree, the light gentler, less harsh to the eye. Not that his recognition seemed to matter, for the Maia was focused upon Melkor, and scarcely seemed to note Makalaurë's presence.

“When you were granted leave to travel where you would, Lord Melkor, my lord did not assume you would take your leave instantly. There was... some concern when you could not be found.”

Melkor turned to look down upon the Maia. Makalaurë, unheeded and evidently forgotten, was sure of that: Melkor was facing the Maia, but his expression was faintly disdainful.

“I was not aware that my new freedom came with the condition of announcing my every movement to my brother, Eönwë.” His voice was still silk-smooth, but now carried an undercurrent of cold iron.

The Maia, Eönwë bowed his head. “Indeed it does not, but you should have heeded that the Firstborn who now share our land are yet wary of you. It would be best if you gave them some more time before introducing yourself, given the past... issues that lay between you and them.”

Melkor placed his hand over his heart. “Of course, of course. But that is why I came here. Prince Fëanáro is spoken of as the greatest of the Second Clan, ah... the Noldor, is he not? I thought perhaps if I were to offer him the hand of friendship, then perhaps my acceptance into the charming society of the Eldar would go more smoothly.”

Makalaurë narrowed his eyes. Melkor's words were spoken earnestly, and there was nothing wrong with what he had said, but somehow, it felt as if his atar, and all the Eldar, were being mocked.

Eönwë did not seem overly impressed either. “Perhaps, but simply arriving upon the doorstep unannounced will not gain you favor. Besides,” he finally turned to Makalaurë, who tried not to wince under the intense gaze of the Maia. “It is clear that Prince Fëanáro is not here, so we do not need to prolong our visit.”

Melkor looked mutinous for a moment, then nodded, keeping his head bowed. “Of course. Let us be off then.” He looked at Makalaurë for a long minute. And if Eönwë's gaze had made him cringe, Melkor's made him want to run and hide. “I am sure the young prince will tell his father of my desire to meet him? Such a famed craftsman as Fëanáro... I am sure he and I can learn much of one another.”

Makalaurë was spared from having to reply to that, because between one breath and the next, Melkor and Eönwë were simply... gone. His knees shook, and all but gave under him as he felt the blood rush from his face. Staggering back inside, he pushed the door closed then leaned heavily against it, his heart pounding, inhaling deeply to calm himself. Facing Melkor, then Eönwë, the currents of tension between two such powerful beings, and the disconcerting way they had simply vanished into the air... it took several minutes for him to feel steady enough to even form a thought, and what came to mind was not reassuring: _How did Melkor even know I was one of Atar's sons?_

“Why do you think Melkor wants to meet Atar?” Carnistir's voice almost made Makalaurë leap out of his skin, and he glared at his brother, sitting calmly on the stairs, his expression blank, as if naught were amiss.

“I have no idea.” Makalaurë finally managed.

“And when was he given free rein to go where he wishes? Melkor, I mean. I thought he could not leave Valmar...”

“Carnistir, I don't know. And why do you care anyway? The internal politics of the Valar are no concern of ours.”

Carnistir shrugged, his dark eyes appearing blacker than ever as he almost stared through Makalaurë. “I think they may become so, if Melkor truly does wish to become a part of our people's lives.” He seemed intrigued, rather than disturbed, by this notion. “Imagine what we could learn from a Vala who existed before the world itself...”

“Lord Aulë is the only Vala that our people need to learn from.” Makalaurë felt uneasy at the calculating look in Carnistir's eyes. “No-one who has any sense will listen to aught that Melkor has to say.”

“We will see.” Carnistir still looked thoughtful as he unfolded his gangly limbs and made his way back upstairs towards his own room. “He might be a good teacher, if one was careful and kept their wits about them.”

“Carnistir-” Makalaurë groaned when he returned to his room without one glance back. _Perfect. Because dealing with Atar's rages and jealousies, and the mockery of our other brothers was not enough, now I have to fret over Carnistir as well?_ He had looked entirely too interested at the prospect of learning from Melkor. Makalaurë shook his head as he returned to his own room. Thank the Valar that he, not Carnistir, had opened that door! Who knew how far his brother might have gone if he had been the first to meet Melkor? Thoughts of the supposedly-redeemed dark Vala being invited into their home made Makalaurë shudder. _At least I will not have to see him again_. And, he resolved there and then, he would _not_ do as Melkor wished and pass on his request to meet Atar. Why should he, anyway? He had not promised anything, and Melkor had no power to command anything of him. No, he would put this unsettling episode from his mind, and it would be as if it never happened.

He hoped such a thing never happened again, either.


End file.
